Our Inexorable Fate
by wade bram wilson
Summary: An exploration of the Dragon Age II Legacy DLC focusing on Anders' experience in the Deep Roads. Consumed by two overwhelming forces: Justice and the taint, but which will take him first?  M!Hawke/Anders
1. Chapter 1: Hawke

**_WELCOME!  
>I am in the process of going back through and deleting all of my notes on this story. For those who have attempted to read this, thank you. For those who made it to the end, I love you. This was my first attempt at fanfiction and it will likely be my last, but I had so much fun.<em>**

_**Please review if my story makes you feel, if you think its good, or if you think it should not have been allowed to see the light of the internet. Remember that I am a human being who enjoys feedback on her creative child-project as much as the next amateur, and I can graciously handle, and correct for, criticism.**_

_**If you are late to the party and are starting to read now. Thank you and Good luck soldiers! I promise it gets okay around the middle, and then again at the very end.**_

**Chapter 1: Hawke**

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><p>"There it is," Varric said in his husky, melodic voice. It was the voice of a storyteller and he exploited it at every opportunity.<p>

"It doesn't look all that Dwarven," my brother intoned.

It was certainly odd to be back with Carver after so long. We hadn't spoken enough to really scope out any changes in one another yet, but when he moved now, when he walked and fought, he looked heavier, more weighted down. No less deadly, but more accountable, if that made any sense. As far as I could tell though, he was still 'a bit of a tit', to borrow Aveline's idyllic phrasing.

I chuckled at the memory, but stifled the noise quickly; this was pretty serious after all. Something was definitely wrong with the world when Varric's sources couldn't get the lowdown on the situation. Still, I ached for a good fight. I rolled my muscled underneath my new armour. It felt light and easy, and was practically humming with anticipation. Or maybe that was just me.

If the dwarves didn't provide, there might even be a couple of darkspawn or a griffon or two, the place was an old Grey Warden fortress after all, and the day was young. I should be a little bit careful though, just in case. Anders would kill me otherwise. After what happened with the Arishok, I can't say I blame him. That one got pretty hairy towards the end.

Although, some reckless abandonment couldn't hurt either, after all, it was personal. The Carter had overstepped their bounds on this one; they had gone after _me_, and _my _family, in _my_ city, Champion status and all. Was nothing sacred? More likely, they were crazy, because now I was out for revenge.

Anders had been quiet throughout the conversation, he was deep in contemplation. As I watched him, he took his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed at it anxiously, worrying the pink, fleshy skin. Until I met Anders, I didn't know that people actually did that, not as a compulsion anyway. I thought it was something that amateur authors invented to make their damsels in distress seem coy and helpless. There he was, my damsel in distress. I snorted aloud and Varric paused in his soliloquy to look at me.

I had learnt a long time ago that it wasn't completely necessary to take in everything that Varric said, a lot of it was creative embellishments and tasteful anecdotes. Worth listening to for entertainment value, but you only really needed the broad strokes of the idea.

Anders spoke up meekly at a lull in the conversation that followed my sudden laughter, his brow furrowed in anxiety, "I just don't like the idea that they can get at you. It worries me."

Had I laughed after something serious again?

I tried to discreetly give him one of my rare, caring smiles. Carver huffed, and made to redirect the topic of conversation.

That was close. Anders had just come very near to revealing our relationship to Carver. Good thing my brother had always been an oblivious bastard. He had looked mildly confused for all of a second before awkwardly trying to change the subject with a joke that fell completely flat. Well, at least now we know who got the full share of the Hawkes' funny genes. Varric had intoned with actual humour, saving us all from what was sure to have been a painfully awkward silence.

I hadn't felt the need to tell Carver about Anders and I. It didn't really seem like something that the kid would want to discuss or know about at all. Besides, did I really need more glaring resentment and disapproval from him? It was no secret that the two didn't exactly get along, why stir the pot? That doesn't sound like something I would do at all. Besides, if I was going to spill, it would be on my own terms, in a way that maximised Carver's humiliation.

Ah, Anders…

I will never be able to fully explain how thankful I am for the man. Sure, there had been low points. There were the fluctuating moods, deep melancholy followed erratically by manic determination, there were the fights, and there were the sad crises that seemed to follow us both. I cringed at the memory of mother's death, it was a wound that was still fresh in my mind, and it would probably hurt forever.

But Anders had been there for me, and not with only half his heart like in the past. He had devoted himself completely to helping me through my personal shitstorm. For the first time, it hadn't felt like I was second to the mage's plight.

As of late, there had been no violent mood swings or suppressed frustrations, which used to culminate in explosive arguments. Of course, Anders had always been the one to storm of in a fit of frustration and righteousness, but he would always come back, sometimes a few minutes later, sometimes he would need to sleep it off in his clinic, but he would always come back, stumbling over apologies and promises that he couldn't possibly keep.

The dismissals and the sulking and the fights and the endless arguing over mages and Templars were all things of the past now though. It seemed that Anders had calmed somewhat. He hadn't been to the clinic, and he hadn't been in contact with the mage underground. He had directed all of his insatiable passion into our relationship. I'm not complaining in the slightest, but I just can't be sure whether it is good for Anders or not.

"_This is what I was born to do," _he had said of his plight.

To simply abandon actively working towards something that he was so passionate about, something that had governed his life for so long, could not possibly be a good thing for someone with as much dedication as Anders. What could he be without that? He had lost his purpose, his ambition. Well, it wasn't completely gone; I could see it in his eyes, in the subtle furrows of his brow when we passed Templars in the street, when he saw the tranquil selling their wares in the Gallows. It was a mourning grief, not impassioned fury like before. It was a sadness that could not be touched by words or tears, but Anders did not act on it, he had no outlet for his pent up need for equality. Perhaps Justice still festered beneath the surface, maybe he would return in full force if Anders were pushed too far.

I had been turning it over and over in my mind, and now the thoughts were so careworn. I knew them back to front, and I had pinpointed the breaking point, it was obvious really:

Ella.

Anders could not forgive himself for Ella. He had lost faith in himself, in what he stood for. He had said as much to me, he had wanted to leave Kirkwall.  
><em><br>"I will not put myself in that position again. I have become the very thing that I stand against. I can't go on like this."_

He said I had been right from the beginning, about Justice being unnatural; and after that we hadn't talked about it. Anders seemed to have reasserted his presence in his own body; he was taking a stand against Justice. It seemed like it was working, like Justice was dormant. I couldn't fool himself into thinking that the guy had been banished forever, just deterred, but oh Maker did I wish that were the case.


	2. Chapter 2: Anders

**Chapter 2: Anders**

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><p>The Vimmark Wastelands were a desolate place, all flat plains of rock and impossible expanses of sand, stretching out endlessly until the land blurred into the dusty skyline.<p>

The landscape was made of sharp lines and hard surfaces, and any plant life that had dared to encroach into this desert were now blackened twigs stretching into the sky as though searching for rain, or twisted stumps hollowed out by rot and wind.

The broken wreckage of trailers and crates littered the scene and dying fires flickered over the rubble and debris, adding waves of heat to the already scorching day. A bronto corpse lay abandoned in the middle of it all. Blood had dried around its snout, and it mixed with the sand in a sticky mess that was still as fresh as the lingering flames. It reeked, but not enough to fool us into thinking that this disturbance was old news. Garret led us apprehensively down the sandy dunes and we followed loyally.

I felt a pull at an instinct that I had almost forgotten I possessed: my long disused Warden sense. A spattering of corruption was laid over the wasteland, thickening deep under the earth. What was this place?

Oh right, an old Grey Warden fortress, how could I forget? Still, it was odd, I felt the impression of the taint around us, but it wasn't darkspawn, or Wardens. Perhaps the Carta had unknowingly ingested some darkspawn blood? Even with everything that they had threatened Garrett with, all the trouble that they had brought us and Kirkwall, I couldn't convince myself that a fate like that would be just. It was the lowest and most degrading way for someone to die. I should know, it was my fate.

We crept through the sandy chasm, alert and vigilant.

My boots made a squeaky scuffing sound in the sand, and then, muffled by the walls of sand and stone, a barely audible cry rang out ahead of us. I tensed in anticipation of attack.

"What was that?" I whispered.

Garrett had drawn his greatsword at the noise and his pace quickened to a jog.

"Listen," Carver silenced me with a gesture as the voice sounded again, "it's the Carta. They've seen us."

It had sounded more like a warning than a call to arms, I dared to think that maybe we had caught them off guard. As though to confirm this, a few shadowy figures far ahead hurriedly dispersed: assassins.

"Oh, way to state the obvious, brother," Garrett said with a roll of his eyes.

We rounded the corner of the sandy basin.

Nothing. The dwarves were hidden in stealth.

"Oho," smirked Isabella, "these guys might even be worth it." I doubted it, they never were.

We continued onward, I strode to keep pace. Our group made a rough scratchy sound in the gravely sand now. None of us re-sheathed our weapons.

Towering before us was an immense stone archway. Now the place was starting to look Dwarven made. This was an ambush if I had ever walked into one. A few more short figures scattered in the distance. Places, please.

"Dwarves are funny," Isabella said, breaking the still cadence, "look at them scurrying away on their stumpy little legs."

Varric made his best indignant face and adopted a tone of voice to match, "Hey, I heard that."

"It's cute when you do it, though." She elaborated.

"That's what I like to hear, Rivaini."

"You know what I like to hear?" Carver interrupted, "Silence. This is an ambush, you know?"

"Again with the obvious, Carver?" Garrett's voice was low, but appropriately telling, "Besides, that makes no sense. You can't hear silence." He gave his brother a soft cuff over the back of the head, somewhat hardened by his metal gauntlet. Carver ducked away too late. I chuckled softly and realized that I had missed having Carver around. Hawke was having too much fun making up for lost time.

We continued our bold trek through the increasingly, tunnel-like archway in relative silence. The soaring stone walls were embedded with ominous sharpened stakes, and before us, the bright sunlight illuminated the end of the passage, darkening the stout form before us in silhouette. Garrett strode confidently towards the figure, but if I knew him at all, and I liked to think that I did by now, he was keeping his eyes and ears open for other threats.

As we neared, the dwarf's features became more and more discernible; his eyes were pale and deadened and his skin was blotched with sickness.

"You," he pronounced, "both brothers, you're here together! You've come!" His white eyes flickered between Garrett and Carver, disregarding Isabella, Varric and I completely, which suited me fine.

"Why set a trap if you thought no one would walk into it?" Varric said to me in an aside.

Carver looked taken aback by the acknowledgement, "Is… he referring to you and me?"

"You see Bartrand anywhere around, Carver?" Hawke whispered under his breath, "Who else could he be referring to?"

The dwarf turned around with his back to us in righteous proclamation, "Everyone! It's the children of Malcolm Hawke! They've come to us."

More of his companions were appearing now, walking as though our merry band of misfits were no threat to them. Wouldn't they be in for a surprise? I grinned.

As they drew nearer, I noticed that they all had the same look about them: whitened cataracts over eyes underlined by ecchymosis shadows; creeping dark capillaries highlighted by pale skin; hair coming out in clumps where their scalp was thinning and scabbing over. I could feel it too, the taint, the corruption inside of them.

What had happened here?

And what in the Maker's name did Garrett's father have to do with anything?

Had I even heard that right?

The spokes-dwarf was clearly mad. I wanted desperately to help them, but I knew there was nothing that could be done. The only merciful thing to do would be to kill them; we needed to put them out of their misery.

The dwarf was still speaking, louder now, "we must have the blood, you don't understand!" and there was desperation in the deep timbre of his voice.

Did he mean darkspawn blood, or Hawke's blood? It wasn't going to be the latter, not while I still breathed. I moved my hand behind me, drawing on my untouched mana stores, letting magic pool and focus in my palm, readying for attack. The dwarf who had spoken to us was already backing away, and on either side, his fellows were dragging daggers from their sheaths with the metallic sound of steel sliding against steel.

Garret laughed, it was a deep melodic sound "Oh, blood? Why didn't you just ask?"  
>Taunting the corrupted dwarves, I smiled despite myself; how very Garrett. He tightened the grip on his weapon and lunged forward, simultaneously dodging an attack on his flank. The battle had begun.<p>

Seizing the energies that I had prepared, I encased the overseer in a prison of ice before he could move to attack. Beside me, the triple thud of Bianca's signature kill sounded. Our party was cleaving through the dwarves with ease, spattering blood across the sand; darker than normal. It smelt wrong, pungent and contaminated.

Possessing the same blighted curse gave me an advantage over the dwarves, I knew their positions, and the biggest threats to us were the snipers who fired from the far blockade. I took more mana, and began manipulating the atmosphere above them. Thunderbolts reigned down from the sky, striking and burning our distant enemies. It was far enough away from my allies that I could let it rage unchecked.

Garrett dove into my eye line, fighting alongside his brother. He swung his blade in wide arcs that managed to be simultaneously powerful and precise, cutting through the opposition with ease, undeterred by the dark blood that splashed back at him.

I had no allusions to the capabilities of the man. He was brave, strong, determined and, well, he was something alright. Whatever it was, this Hawke-ness, I loved it in its entirety. I loved everything about him and, as anxious as it made me, I loved to watch him fight. The way his muscles flexed and extended under his armour with every powerful strike, the survivor look on his face, burning adrenaline like fuel for wildfire.

The whir and thud of Bianca's bolts punctuated my thoughts. Varric jumped back as an arrow whizzed between us.

"Head in the game, Blondie."

"Right," I countered with a hurtling rock fist that knocked the archer on his back. Isabella leapt on the fallen dwarf, daggers poised.

Having carved through the few dwarves that surrounded us, the brothers were hurtling over to the remaining enemies who still floundered in my waning tempest. It was friendly competition for them, both trying to outrun the other. Inevitably, Hawke was always a few paces ahead.

Isabella beat them both, however. She was already amidst the remaining enemies, and I manipulated the humming energies of the storm around her, steering the arcs away from the conducting metal of her blades. Unhelpfully, she raised them into the air behind the final sniper, just as his neck spurted from an expertly aimed crossbow bolt. I saw Isabella frown at the corpse in disappointment. The electricity in the air was fading into the ether as quickly as it had come, standing amidst it now would do nothing more than leave your hair standing on its ends.

"See, this is why I usually only bring three of you," Garret complained, kicking a piece of stone at Carver as he jogged to the rest of the group, "it's too easy."

Now aggregated, we slackened, relaxing into the temporary reprieve. None of us sheathed our weapons, only lessoned white-knuckled grips. The heat was stifling; I could feel myself sweating in my heavy coat. Andraste's ass, how could anyone fight in armour under such a relentless sun? I looked to Garrett, he was panting but his eyes were sharp and alert. His hair was already matted with blood and sweat. He winked at me.

I grinned back, knowing I must look as much of a mess as he did. I held my staff up, bathing the group in a wave of restorative energy. I could have sworn I heard a collective sigh escape us.

"So," Garrett started, "what is a Corypheus?"

– "It's the Hawke!" A belated battle cry resounded off of the rock walls.

Any explanations we might have offered were forced into the background as, hefting blades, crossbows and staves, we turned to meet our targets.

…

It seemed that the Carta had found a new depth of resolve and cunning in the leadership of their 'Corypheus'. Again and again, they attacked with fierce determination. Ambush after ambush, undeterred by the ease with which we cut through their brethren. It surprised us all, how tactical and resourceful they had become. It was a refreshing change from the monotonous waveform tactics of Kirkwall's gangs, where the only variance would be which building the Dwarves would leap down from today – usually the one with the flattest roof.

Weren't dwarves supposed to be afraid of the sky? Did they crouch up there in wait, clinging to the gutters in fear, irrationally distrustful of the gravitational forces to hold them down?

I put the question to Varric: "Don't you group me in with the Orzammar dwarves, Blondie!" he had said. "I am a surfacer through and through, couldn't understand them if I tried. Besides," he added, trying to sound appropriately offended, "we both know anyone who actually _likes_ the Deep Roads is crazy and should be left down there with the taint and deep-crawlers."

I chuckled, but I knew that it must be hard for him to keep up his façade sometimes. What had happened with Bartrand must have hurt him more than he could let on.

"I had friends who liked the Deep Roads!" It was my turn to act indignant. Varric only raised an eyebrow. "Well, maybe _liked_ is a bit strong: 'endured' maybe?"

"That sounds more like it! Crazy Wardens. You're lucky to have escaped when you could."

"I heard that," Carver sounded and Varric let out a bark of laughter, which tapered off in quiet chuckles from the both of us.

The day wore on, measurable only by the path that the orange sun burnt across the hazy sky. We sprung traps, fought Brontos, endured wave after wave of fevered opposition. Garrett revelled in the games. He took to sending Isabella or Varric ahead to scout, reporting back with layouts, traps and vantage points.

We would gather around him as he drew lines in the sand, using rocks and twigs to represent markers and enemies, developing strategies and game plans. We exploited the land formations, used clever distractions, and turned carefully lain traps to our advantage as weapons.

When we fought, everything slowed down; every pivot and step was a calculation, ever expenditure of mana was a weighted decision, and all of it passed in split second increments. We were a deadly force that washed through the Vimmark Chasm, clearing out the tainted Carta, leaving only battered corpses and dying fires in our wake.

Time drained onwards, like sand sifting through cupped hands, as it inevitably must, and the sun's fire waned as it sunk behind the horizon, yielding to the darkness with a final burst of colour that leeched into the dusty atmosphere, turning the sky a brilliant blood red for a few precious seconds.

Hawke had taken a rusted archaic-looking key from the corpse of one of the slaughtered Carta members. He contemplated it, rolling it over in his hand before turning his gaze to the rotten wooden gates that loomed over him, flagged on both sides by ornate red banners.

"Alright, gang. I think we can call it a day," he declared with a smile.

We made use of one of the long disused sleeping quarters as a convenient and strategic campsite. The small room was equipped with six bunks, and it was mercifully free of corpses. But the ceiling was patchy and the wind whistled in through the broken thatching and through the cracks in the brick walls. The smell of blood, and something else with an acrid edge to it, wafted up the staircase from the courtyard outside, where the death toll had been significantly higher, but the room was selected for strategy, not comfort. A switch outside released a lethal trap. At best, whoever was on watch could take care of any Carta who had come late to the party; at worst the grinding, metallic sound would surely wake the rest of us.

Tomorrow, we would enter the Carta stronghold.


	3. Chapter 3: Anders

**Chapter 3: Anders**

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><p>It was hard to believe that an environment that had been so blisteringly arid just hours ago could change so radically in the absence of the sun's heat. It ushered in the pale face of the moon, and under her reign, cold descended on the nightscape like snow in the winter. We huddled around the fire that we had built in the middle of the room. The brickwork around us did nothing to insulate the warmth that it created.<p>

Hawke took out his pack and, with no measure of grace or self-restraint, began to tear into his rations with gusto.

I signed exasperatedly, "Hawke, they are called rations because they are supposed to_ last_."

He swallowed half of his mouthful and spoke through the rest, "you're just jealous I packed more than you." I watched the bread churn behind his teeth. Maybe I didn't love _everything_ about him.

"Later, you are going to starve," I chided, "and I'm not sharing when that happens," we both knew I would if it came to it.

"Maker, Anders, do you have to be so selfish?" he joked, "I know you don't yield to hunger like us mere mortals, but have a heart, I'm a growing man!" I laughed, it was so easy with Garrett.

I gave his belly a sharp prod, "Growing outwards maybe." In truth, his abs were rock hard against my thin fingers, the man was infuriating. He had the decency to look hurt for a moment before ploughing onwards through his food and his point.

"Hey, I've got to eat for us both", he shrugged, and gave the plane of his stomach a gentle pat.

– "You could do to eat more, Anders." Isabella interjected, arching her eyebrow at me, "a skinny man is just no fun."

Carver, who had been rifling through his pack for his waterskin, let an obnoxious snort escape him. Hawke had his usual impish grin plastered on, and his brown eyes sparkled in the dancing firelight with no small measure of devilish intent. I did not like where this conversation was headed.

"Oh, he _more_ than makes up for it in the bedroom."

And there it was.

Carver choked on a mouthful of water.  
>Isabella looked positively delighted.<br>And Varric began rifling furiously through his pack for parchment.

But Hawke, Hawke was looking straight at me, eyebrows raised, and that smile, daring me to say something. I determinedly avoided his gaze, even though I could feel the crimson flush burning my cheeks.

"Besides," Hawke continued, cradling both of my pale hands in his own, "Neither of you have had the opportunity to fully appreciate his body like I have."

I cringed, that was a step too far. Hawke was positively writhing with suppressed laughter and Isabella's eyes roamed over me as though she could see straight through my robes. Maker, I hoped not, she looked positively predatory. I wanted to pull my coat tighter around me for protection against those penetrating eyes, but Hawke had not relinquished his grasp on my hands.

Carver was still spluttering. Apparently Hawke hadn't told him about the nature of our relationship yet. Not the most subtle way to go about it, but when had he ever been subtle? This was Hawke all over. I smiled despite myself; it still amazed me that he was never ashamed of me, that he loved me at all.

I had a feeling Carver would have a lot more to say on the issue, but Hawke's hands were warm around my own, and for the moment, I was content. Rising from the roaring fireside, Carver trudged off down the stairs and into the darkness, mumbling something as he descended about first watch.

We crawled into one of the wooden bunks. It creaked in protest, clearly used to supporting a more dwarven body type, not two humans. The padding of the mattress was lumpy and thin, and I was wedged tightly between the stone wall and the hard muscle of my lover. But as Garret curled up around me, with his beard brushing against the exposed flesh on the back of my neck and his arms wrapped tightly around my middle, I felt at home.

…

I walked through a barren landscape, with brown skies and browner terrain. Looming over me, a dark mass of rock and towers was suspended in the sky: The black city. I was in the fade.

The wind brushed past my ear, and it sounded melodic, like a song, a voice.

But there was no wind in the fade.

I turned to follow the sound, trekking up the path that the fade spirits had lain out ahead of me. The scene blurred and swelled before me, but the wind was still there, and I followed its call past strangely warped trees in a landscape that felt like an amateur painter's crude imitation of the natural world. I was getting closer, the wind was louder now, and I could almost make out the words when I strained my ears enough.

My arm caught on something and I jerked absently to pull myself free, not wanting to break my search for the source of that intriguing song. As I struggled, the sound softened. The music was barely discernible now through the dense static of the fade. I tried to follow, but my wrist was securely encased. Tearing my eyes away from the path before me, I turned to my captor.

Only to come face to face with Justice, standing proud and righteous as the day I first met him.

I gasped.

"**_Turn back now, Anders." _**His voice had that resonation to it, penetrating the dense atmosphere. I found that I had missed it.

"Don't worry, I just… heard something coming from over there." I gesticulated vaguely in the direction that I needed to go. I could still hear the whisper, just out of range, as though it were giving me a chance to catch up, I tried to pull my arm out of Justice's iron grasp.

"**_Don't listen to him."_**

I turned to face him fully, frowning. Why had he come back to interfere now, when I so needed to follow that noise? Every time he asserted himself in my life it was to control me, to bend me to his irrational will. But I had let him go once, and I would do it again. I was stronger now. I had Hawke.

"I don't need you," I said, and I meant it. "We wanted the same things once, but you will never understand the world. I can make my own decisions and I will do this my own way." My friend looked at me with sadness in his eyes and then he released my wrist only to take me by both shoulders.

"**_But this is not your world, my friend."_**

I struggled against him, but his grip was firm. He drove me backwards, pushing relentlessly and I grabbed at my back for my staff. It was gone.

No, this was the fade, and I could control it. This was Justice's doing. While the mortal realm was my ballpark, the fade was his, he held all the cards. I tried reaching for my magic, but I was grasping at ideas, there was nothing. He had disarmed me and I was powerless.

Justice pushed me relentlessly towards the edge of the landscape. I writhed in his grip, but he was too strong. My struggle was futile, and with a final powerful shove, he threw me down, over the edge of the world. I plummeted, but it was like plunging into a warm, hazy ocean, not the hurtling cliff-fall that I anticipated. The warmth swallowed me up, the brown intensified. I watched my friend twisting and morphing, receding into the ether, and with him I heard the song bend and wane, absorbed in static.

I sat up, wrenching away from the tangle of limbs that I was in. My chest was burning as I pulled great gasping breaths into my tired lungs. I wanted to get up, to walk around. I wanted to wake Hawke so I could feel his calloused fingers against my clammy skin. I needed to reassert my presence in my own body, to feel at home in this fleshy mass of cells and tissues, organs and systems. It had felt so real, so uncontrollable. Judging by my body's physiological response, it had thought so too.

Bodies, I understood; minds were something else entirely, no matter how familiar you thought you were with one. I disentangled myself from Hawke's arms and rose, shivering as the sticky residue of sweat cooled on my skin. Retrieving a shirt from the floor, I pulled it over my head as I shuffled over to the fire and sat beside it. With a spark of magic, I rekindled its dying embers, and tossed a handful of tinder to feed its hunger.

Justice had infiltrated my dreams again, but it was different. Before, he had had complete control of us in the fade. Now that he had returned, it was like he had taken a backseat, a passenger to my travels. Did this mean that we could be partners in the plight again, friends even?

Ever since Alrik, I had been able to suppress Justice. It's not something I can easily explain. Perhaps he was ashamed? I know all I had wanted to do after that incident was to disappear. Until now, Justice had seemed to have settled into some deep recess of my subconscious, somewhere _I _couldn't even reach. Still there, but sleeping, I felt him rouse when an unfairness was being done, but it was different, less assured, he hadn't tried to take control. It was the same when I dreamed, sometimes I could see him on the periphery, always watching, but he didn't interfere anymore, until tonight.

When we had merged, I thought that it would be different, that we would remain as two separate entities, sharing my body, working together. I could never have known how wrong that was. Justice hadn't known either. It was a jarring change, and then it had been a constant struggle.

Justice dealt in absolutes, he saw right and wrong, black and white. When he… we, killed those first Templars, I hadn't known what to do, what I had gotten myself into. So I ran. I ran from the Wardens, I ran from my life, and I tried to run from Justice.

I had always known that it was brutal, their deaths. We were vicious and bloodthirsty in our dealings, but I could always reason that they deserved it. I know that they did.

Despite that, it had scared me. Maybe it had scared us both; and after that, I had fought for control, I had resisted the change. I knew that the Templars had deserved to die, but at the same time it had felt so wrong, so unnatural. I needed to preserve my autonomy; after all, we were supposed to be partners in our crusade. It wasn't supposed to be more oppression.

When Hawke and I had first met, I told him that Justice and I were one, but I couldn't really believe that. I could still differentiate between his thoughts and mine, most of the time. The transformation was incomplete. I wasn't a willing host; I hadn't been for some time. But as we lived and struggled together, I began to gradually give myself over to him and his worldviews.

And then there was Alrik, and… Ella. I couldn't trust Justice or myself anymore; were we now interchangeable? I hadn't been back to the clinic. I had avoided the mage underground. I just couldn't risk it. What would happen if I lost myself in front of a patient? What if the Templars caught up to us when we were shepherding mages out of the Gallows, when our charge were so often mere children? No, I could not risk it.

What he had almost done... what _I_ had almost done, was unforgiveable. I could not let myself become everything that I hated, everything that I fought so hard to stand against. So I had fought back; and Justice, it seemed, had let me. Maybe he was less assured of his convictions; but then, could he really still be called Justice? It seemed I had changed him as much as he had changed me. Maybe he had some of my human failings now: my fear, my apprehension, my doubts?

I felt like I had more control, but I knew it was just another lie I told myself.

And also, what was that song? Was Justice responsible? It seemed strange that he would show himself in the fade just as a strange, new entity appears. Maybe he had learnt more from his time in the mortal realm than I gave him credit for. Was he capable of lies and deception? Could he be trying to trick me into trusting him again?

A cold, gauntleted hand enclosed my shoulder, piercing through my introspective.

Fear gripped me and I instinctively drew in a breath of mana, readying myself to run or fight. Had the Templars finally caught up to me?

Turning, I saw a familiar shape illuminated by the renewed flames. It was Carver, only Carver.

I realised I had been holding my breath and I released it, the wind rushed out of my lungs with a soft, embarrassing sound. That was a stupid, paranoid thought. I was in the Deep Roads, who would follow me here? I tried to hide my momentary panic attack from Carver.

"Bad dreams?" he asked, releasing his grip on my shoulder. His eyes were scrutinizing.

"Always."

"…Warden dreams?"

That's right, I had almost forgotten that Carver was a Grey Warden now. I didn't want to talk to him about my dreams, they were too personal. But I was willing to try if he was brave enough to ask. At least I knew that on some level he could understand.

"It's different for me," I breathed, "I'm a mage and a Warden… and then there's Justice. He complicates things."

"Yeah, I remember you telling Garrett…" his voice trailed off awkwardly. This was always the way our conversations ended when we were both trying to be civil to one another. Carver heaved a great sigh, steeling himself.

"So, you and my brother then?" His remark caught me off guard; it was less of a question and more of an accusation. I didn't know how to respond.

_What of it? : _too aggressive.

_I'm sorry_, : No, never admit fault.

Instead, I settled for, "He makes me feel whole."

Was that too intimate to have shared with my lover's sibling? I shifted in my seat, waiting for a response, or a punch in the face, whatever.

Instead, there was a slow exhale. Was that self-control? Was this the same Carver that I had known all those years ago? Had being with the Wardens mellowed him, if only a little? I thought back on the day's interactions, he had seemed less self-entitled at the least, and his temper had definitely waned. Maybe he had gained a sense of identity, maybe he was finally being his own man?

Was this maturation?

It was amazing how easy it was for him to slip into the old routine of taking direction from his brother. It was as though he had never left us. Anyone would think he had missed it.

"Right then," Carver finally said, following my lead with his awkward shuffling. He stood up, "I guess I'll just… go and do another patrol."

"Carver," I said and he paused, mid-stride, "you should go get some rest. I'm already up now. I won't be able to sleep again." I tried to smile at him but it felt more like a grimace. He nodded and turned toward his bedroll.

And then, he stopped again, and opened his mouth to speak. He closed it and opened it again before saying, "he seems… happy, I suppose." Then he walked briskly away before I could tell him that I loved his brother.

And that, for some reason I would never understand, he loved me too.


	4. Chapter 4: Anders

**Chapter 4: Anders**

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><p>The exchange with Carver had been a lot less volatile than I had steeled myself for. I dwelt upon it in the night and by the time the thin, morning light began to seep into the room I had all but revised my opinion on him. Stretching my legs, I stood and slouched over to the bunk that Garrett and I had shared earlier that night.<p>

His body was stretched across the frame; shirtless, with long legs hanging over the end, one arm lolling off of the side. No doubt he would have ended up in this position whether I had remained by his side or not. The sun's pale light rested over his face and I could see tiny dust mites illuminated as they drifted through its trajectory. This place was almost peacefully silent in the still morning air. The cadence was somewhat dulled however, by the smell of death wafting up from the courtyard outside.

Garrett let out a soft snore and I crouched beside him, trailing my fingers through his thick, dark hair. He had done his best to scrub some of the blood from it the night before, but the sticky residue remained, matting the strands together in a messed, morning tangle. He snored again, louder this time, and the corner of his mouth twitched with the noise. Garrett slept like a bear in hibernation; I couldn't help but think how beautiful he was like this. He was relaxed and so completely at ease, all the feathery creases around his eyes were calmed, his mouth slightly open.

When Garrett was alert, you could see all of the burdens that he carried etched into his face, swimming in his eyes, resting on the line of his jaw and atop his shoulders. In sleep, these features absconded him in a temporary ceasefire; an utterly serene period of tranquillity.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his and just held the contact. I couldn't help myself.

That did it. He captured my mouth with his, languidly at first, returning the kiss. I felt more than saw his eyelids flutter open. When his tongue thrust into my mouth, I had to pull away to breathe.

"Good morning to you too," I laughed.

Garrett smirked at me and reached out to pull my body back to his. One hand gripping my shoulder, his other wandered down to my waist. I let myself fall into him. He pushed upwards with surprising agility for a man who had been drooling and snoring not seconds ago. He flipped me over, inversing our positions. On the tiny bunk, this feat proved a mite more difficult than it would have been in Garrett's luxurious four-poster. I winced as my back hit the stone wall at the wrong angle.

"Oh shit. Sorry Anders." The words muffled against my mouth. I forgave him with a groan. His hands went lower still and I realised mine were gripping his taut muscle.

"Well, isn't this a fun scene to wake up to! Hang on, am I awake? This looks familiar." I jumped away from Garrett only to propel myself back against the hard wall, cementing the prospect of bruises at those familiar points of contact.

Isabella's smirking face was hanging down from the bunk above us, trailing dishevelled hair below her. Her expression was no less telling for its upside down-ness. "Room for one more?"

I rolled onto my side, clutching at Garrett's resolute fingers as they continued trying to probe under my clothing. I felt flush creeping up my neck and colouring my cheeks.  
>Garrett whined, "Couldn't you have settled for a free show, Isabella? You just had to talk and ruin it!"<p>

"But look at that blush! I had to, sweet thing. Besides, this damn thing," she gripped the bunk's wooden frame with both hands and swung herself down to land gracefully on the dusty floorboards, "is about to collapse. I didn't want to be on top when it did."

"Pun intended?" Garrett growled.

"No, that 'on top' I could have handled."

I buried my face under the thin blanket as Garrett rolled over to the side of the bed and began pulling on his boots. Andraste's ass, how did he always get me like that in company? It was something I constantly and ineffectively strained to avoid. It was just so awkward.

Had it always been this way?

No. Definitely not.

In the Circle, any liaisons that went on -and there had been many- were not something that were ever carried out with spectators, not for lack of desire. They were secret affairs, stolen moments in storage cupboards, or between bookshelves in the library, or if you were lucky, in a mercifully empty dormitory; but these belonged to nobody. In the darkness, we had clutched at lives and experiences that we could never have owned. It had been a fumbling lust, a loss of control on our own terms, but that's all it had been. We longed for more.

Each time I had wrenched myself out of the iron grip of the Circle, and when I was confident that I had run far enough this time (I never could have), I seized upon my temporary freedom. I was shamelessly open with my flirting. I took all the publicity I could get, and everything else.

When the Grey Wardens offered me their twisted form of freedom, I took it. I still messed around, trifled with hearts and bodies. I suppose I took it all as a liberty of my newly acquired ability to choose, to make my own decisions. To be able to give myself to whomever I wished. I flaunted it, it was new and fun, to be able to kiss a girl in public, put my hand on her thigh and make her squirm and giggle, when there were no cold hands to rip us apart. But it had never been real.

I suppose it had really only changed after Justice, and that was supposed to have been celibacy, until Garrett walked in to my clinic and all those half-baked plans were pushed right out of the door to make room for him in my life. He reminded me how to trust, and he showed me that I was stronger than Justice made me feel, he showed me what it was like to be in control of my own destiny. It was different with Garrett, he _meant_ something to me, and he was real. When I was with him, no one else could touch us.

I could express everything I needed with my touch, my gaze. It was private, it was instinctual, and it was just for him. When he kissed me around our friends, or more often than not, enthusiastically groped me, I felt like everyone else was seeing a side of Garrett and I that was only meant for us.

I resurfaced and Garrett was standing before the bunk with half of his Champion armour on, the other half littered around while he sorted through the remaining pieces, trying to decide what went where.

I knew why he did it. It was to show them all that I was his and he was mine. To show me that he loved me. To tell the world to sod off for a moment, let it know that I was more important than any of it; that we were more important.

I never could resist.

Maker, I wasn't nearly as strong as he thought I was.

He had managed to attach his chest plate, but he now held one shiny, spiky looking piece of metal and was insistently trying to fit it to his elbow, his shoulder, his other shoulder and his belt sequentially, as though one would click miraculously into place.

I chuckled at his confusion and he looked up at me in surprise. He held the piece out to me adamantly.

"This one's yours" The metal shimmered in the morning light. I took it from his outstretched hand and held it to my tattered coat. All of its metal buckles were spotted with rust and dirt, the silvery plate next to it looked embarrassingly out of place.

"Does it look like that's mine?" This only served to prompt an even more confused expression.

Gently, I took him by the hips and spun him on his side, before he could try to offer the piece to Carver. I fastened it to his shoulder, careful not to smudge the shiny metal that had taken him a large portion of the night to buff the bloodstains off of.

"Alright, now do the rest, Anders. And when we get back, you are getting a new coat, mister! That one is dirty and embarrassing. We can get you a pretty new one to match my shiny armour! Or robes, how do you feel about silky robes?"

"You just want me in a dress so you can look more masculine!"

He tilted his head to the side, as though considering the merits of the idea, eventually he conceded, "This is true, yes. I think I do an alright job of it too." He grinned, daring me to argue the point.

"But I _like_ my feathers!"

"I do too, love, but they are molting," to assert this point, he grasped my pauldrons and pulled, coming back with a handful of grey plumage, and leaving the shoulder of my coat bald and ugly. I grimaced, "see?"

"You didn't need to go and do that!"

"We'll get you one with new feathers. Better feathers! Not grubby grey ones. Nice sleek black ones, or blue! You like blue…

…Hey Anders, do you ever wonder whose job it is to go out and catch all the birds and sit there plucking their feathers out? Do you think when he finishes he just lets them fly off stark naked until they grow back and he can harvest them again? Are there feather farms? Anders, do you know how much trouble you and your damn feather coats cause these farmers?"

I tuned his voice out into a deep comforting thrum while I fixed the rest of his armour in place. He would need to peter out of this ramble on his own.

With armour secured and robes defeathered, we gathered out packs and stepped out of our little building, over and on the corpses that littered the courtyard. Garrett turned the tarnished old key in its lock and pushed the great wooden doors inward. They swung with the creaking sound of neglect.

The Carta guards stationed outside were easy enough to dispatch, and on entering their stronghold we were grateful to learn that none had been given the chance to race back a report. Those inside had clearly not been expecting us. The first guard had been fast asleep next to a suspicious looking switch. Too easy. Garret, being his courteous self, had insisted on waking the slumbering dwarf to "let him die with dignity". It was a death to herald another slaughter.

The Carta hideout was brimming with poisoned dwarves. I knew that these were thieves and smugglers, murderers and criminals; but it was just as possible that they were sons, fathers and brothers. It was miserable work. So many lives had been wasted at the whim of this darkspawn, demon, whatever 'Corypheus' claimed to be.

There were scraps of paper carelessly littered around the base, each providing new, terrible insights into the motives of the Dwarves and the desires of their master. It was clear that there was dark magic at work.

The Carta were slaves to the whims of Corypheus, and he wanted freedom. They were no more responsible for their actions than dogs would be for obliging when their master said 'kill'. But the words on the torn, stained parchment held such reverence and power. They were written by true zealots:

_What is the Carta beside Corypheus? Nothing but dust and ashes. Only Corypheus is eternal. We are his hands and his eyes on the surface. We are the ones he honoured with his trust, to dig him from his prison in the Deep Roads._

The blind devotion in those phrases was disturbing. But worse was the scrawl about Garrett's blood and 'the key', this was so intrusively close to home.

_It will not wake at my touch; it sleeps and its power remains within. The Great One says it requires Malcolm Hawke's blood to awaken it. Only then can its powers set him free. I will find the heir to the blood and the Great One will reward me. Yes. Let it be soon._

Why then, were we still here? Could we not leave and be rid of this burden forever? No blood meant no release, and the longer we waited, the more likely they'd get there blood. Fleeing now would make perfect sense.

But no, of course we couldn't do that, because of Garrett's misplaced sense of obligation.

Unfortunately, he had also picked up a Grey Warden correspondence that spoke of strengthening Corypheus' prison using the very same key. So, naturally he had heaped that up there on his mountain of problems, making it his responsibility to protect everyone else, as usual.

What really _irritated_ me though, was the carelessness of them all. Why did everyone here insist on leaving vital pieces of intelligence scattered in scraps of paper where anyone could stumble upon them? What was wrong with these people? Were they really so negligent? The dwarves, maybe; but the Grey Wardens? The whole of Thedas put their faith in these people to be vigilant, but they couldn't even bother to properly dispose of their rubbish? It was shameful, and if they hadn't left that note, then we all could have gone home happily knowing that we had rid the world of a few brainwashed dwarves.

We were never so lucky.

When the last dwarf in the room was felled, Hawke turned to survey the fulminating bronto that stomped and snorted behind bars. Then he turned his pleading gaze to me.

"Can we keep it? You always said you wanted another pet" Could he actually be serious?

"I want a cat! How could you compare a cute, fluffy kitten to that thing?"

"Yes but, can a cat rival Hafter in battle?" If Garrett had brought the dog with us, he would surely be growling in indignation at being likened to the caged beast before us.

"Hafter would hate it. That's two votes no." I said.

The beast huffed in its cage. The poor thing had no food or water, and there were signs of atrophy in the muscles of its legs and arms. Nevertheless, it glared at us with bloodlust, snorting and pawing the dirt with its hooves.

"Maybe we should let it out?" Garrett smiled brightly at his own suggestion. For such a sharp man, he could certainly be a fool sometimes. Most of the time.

Varric's eyes were wide and he stepped prematurely in front of Garrett to block his anticipated trajectory, "Are you crazy, Hawke!"

"Look at it. It's hungry and sad."

"You got the first one right, sweet thing. But when that mother gets out, she is not going to thank us for rescuing her; she is going to eat us. It's a no from me too."

"You're being stupid, brother," That's five for no, hooray!

Garrett turned his pout on me. Damn him and his irresistible charms! I reasoned with myself to act like an adult and not the fawning boyfriend that am.

"I know you aren't going to like this, love, but we have to kill it. We can't let it waste away in this cage, and as nice as it sounds it's not going to run off into the sunset and live happily ever after if we just release it," he opened his mouth but I continued, "We can't keep it either. It only knows violence and neglect."

Maker, it sounded like me.

But I had recovered well enough… hadn't I?

I tried to imagine Garrett taming the bronto, rehabilitating it as he had done with me. It would live with us up in the mansion like an adopted stray. It would probably try, as Hafter often did, to slink into the warmth of the bed in Winter, pushing me and Garrett off of the sides. If there was one man who could make that work, it would be Garrett. My answer was an even more resolute no.

"I don't like it." Garrett frowned.

"I don't either, but it's better than leaving it to die." I took his hand and we both turned towards the cage, hesitating.

"Varric," Garrett asked, "would you?"

"I don't suppose there's any other option," and with that he hefted Bianca from her holster and aimed a bolt straight between the black eyes of the raging bronto.

There was a cracking thud, and the great beast swayed on her feet. Varric followed with another and the bronto's great weight finally collapsed onto the floor of the cage. She let out a rough snort, and blood flecked over my boots. A dark stain crept along the floor from where her head rested. This was mercy.

"Come on." Varric said with finality, and we trudged away.


	5. Chapter 5: Anders

**Chapter 5: Anders**

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><p>The rooms of the Carta hideout were cavernous spaces, pieced together with walls that could best be described as 'muddy'. Wooden support beams jutted out in places, breaking up the uniform brownness. The dirt floor muffled our progress past the abandoned carts and piles of debris. From the darkness ahead the soft thud of running feet evolved, and by the time the singular dwarf had scuttled around the corner, our weapons were drawn and ready.<p>

He ran with his hand raised out toward us as though in command, with that terrible, opaque deadness where his eyes should have been.

"The Hawke's blood. The master will rise. He will be free."

The muddy walls bounced his words back to us, softened but audible and just a little warped from the journey.

And then, Varric stepped forward.

"What are you doing here, Gerav?" He said, shock and empathy painted on his expressive face, coloured with just a hint of revulsion, "Worshipping demons?"

I looked between the dwarves, my friend stood too close to the other, who was fevered and crazed, but there was slow recognition in those cloudy eyes.

"Varric? No one told me you would be part of this. We were just going after the Hawke."

"Yeah, about that," Garrett intervened, "Why has the Carta been attacking me? I mean, that in itself is nothing new, but all this scandal with 'Corypheus' is a bit overdramatic, wouldn't you say?"

Clearly the dwarf did not appreciate theatrics like Garrett. Ignoring the last, he stuttered, "I c-can't say" and he genuinely sounded like he couldn't. His tone was almost apologetic, until he steeled himself and added, "The master must be free!"

Alright, another crazy dwarf, good to have that all cleared up.

Varric, however, would not give up that easily. Had they been friends once? He kept talking, trying to persuade the other dwarf. His easy charm was there but it was masking something else, something painful.

"We drink the darkspawn blood," Gerav's gaze was now fixed on Varric and he offered him a thin, diffident smile. His palms were extended outwards, imploring Varric to understand. "He calls us."

Garrett's face contorted into a disgusted grimace, but his revulsion was even more evident in his tone, "Why would you do that? Won't you just die?"

How little he knew.

"It's the only way to hear the music!"

Varric stumbled backwards reflexively, inching away from the twisted dwarf that used to be his friend.

I felt about as shocked as Garrett looked. Why would _anyone _want this? Who would willingly accelerate the spread of the taint?

The dwarves drank the darkspawn blood so they could hear… what? Did this Corypheus speak through the calling?

The pieces were slowly falling into place, I could practically hear them clicking together inside my own skull. What _was_ Corypheus? Another awakened darkspawn? Please no, anything but that.

A slow realisation dawned upon me, and I clenched my clammy palms around my staff to staunch the trembling that had developed in my fingers.

Was he talking about the whispering song that I had heard in my dream?  
>Maker, I hoped not.<p>

"Oh come on you nug-licker, snap out of it! There's no gold in hallucinating!"

Varric's voice broke through my personal calamity. It rung with a poorly-concealed note of desperation that reminded me that whatever I was feeling, it was so much worse for him. This dwarf had obviously been a friend of his, and now he was nothing more than a proselytised puppet, a ghost of his former self.

The blood of Hawke… I reached into my pocket, enclosing my fist around that abhorrent scrap of paper that I had picked up, the one that spoke of the Grey Warden key that the dwarves could not use, the key that wanted Garret to bleed. I felt resentment stirring in the pit of my stomach, towards the careless Wardens, towards the Carta, and towards the monster that had instigated this whole mess: Corypheus.

"Bianca, I think it's time to say goodbye."

Throwing a flask at his feet, Gerav vanished into a screen of thick, black smoke. When the cloud dissipated, Varric's bolt was visible, lodged in a beam directly behind where the other dwarf's neck had dematerialized. Then the dwarf was at the other side of the room, daggers ready, and flanked by two of his corrupted brethren.

"You bastard!" Varric yelled, and even our storyteller could not hide the anguish in his voice.

I made my first attack a blistering winter's grasp, trapping Gerav in a slab of ice. With the five of us pounding and hacking at only a handful of dwarves, our victory was quick. It was Isabella's pointed daggers that shattered Gerav's prison, puncturing through his diaphram and causing both lungs to collapse. I thawed the splintering ice that still held him upright and his body crumpled to the ground.

If Gerav was dead before, now he was at peace.

Varric trudged towards the corpse; his motions were heavy as he sunk down beside it, "The poor, stupid bastard. I used to do business with the Carta, back in the day. Gerav was a nutcase then too but, in a good way. He was trying to design a new type of repeating crossbow. Bianca was the only one that ever worked," he pressed two fingers to the dwarf's eyelids, pulling them down and over the empty orbs within, and then rose, turning his back, "I can't believe he ended up like that."

Varric didn't turn around again, he walked determinedly from the room and all I could offer was to follow dutifully.

What had started as a refreshingly challenging adventure had quickly declined into tragedy. I had a strong sense that we were only just tapping the surface of what was undoubtedly a great big pile of buried cataclysm.

It was no surprise that the next room we entered saw a dozen fevered dwarves throw themselves at us in righteous fury. What caught us all off guard was the flurry of fireballs that rained down into the fray.

Dwarves couldn't use magic.

The fireballs were indiscriminate and uncontrolled, not like Varric's hail of precision arrows that joined them. I watched as one inferno plunged into the centre of a ring of Carta dwarves. They fell, screaming to the ground, thrashing in the dirt in a vain effort to beat the flames from their raw skin. The smell of burnt flesh and hair mingled with the almost constant aroma of blood and death that surrounded our party.

Carver dove into the thick of them and, with fire lapping at his armour, he thrust his blade into the flailing dwarves one after the other, putting them out of their sickening misery. I threw a jet of freezing air at the flames, following it closely with a burst of healing energy for Carver's blistering skin.

Another particularly volatile fireball exploded, nearly missing Isabella who executed an expert dive out of its path. In the same motion, she landed both deadly curved blades in a nearby dwarf.

Who was their castor?

My eyes found Garrett, bounding up the stairs at the back of the room. He was headed toward a ledge where a man stood in a half-crouch, surrounded by a shimmering spherical shield.

I readied myself. I knew I couldn't see from this distance, but I swore I saw the mage twitch, i imagined the sweat beading on his skin from the exertion of holding up his barrier, and surely from fear as he watched Garrett pacing just outside the confines of his failing refuge, brandishing his sword menacingly.

When the mage's defence fell, his arms were already raised to cast again, but before he could so much as gesture, his limbs were trapped in my petrifying snare of rock. Garrett's blade plunged into his neck.

Our party's momentum carried us onward and we pushed forward into the next room. Garrett and his brother were leading, shadowed closely by the rogues and myself. We were greeted by yet another cluster of dwarves, but none were in battle stance and their weapons were sheathed. Garrett reluctantly slowed to a standstill.

"Hawke," the leader strode towards us confidently. I smirked despite myself, we would soon make him question that assurance, "they told me you were going to be trouble, and look, you brought the whole family. How generous. I swore to Corypheus we'd bring him Malcolm Hawke's blood. One way or the other."

"What does this have to do with my father?" Garrett blurted out. I could tell he was just as tired as I was of speaking in riddles and threats. It was time for some answers.

Garrett had stepped forward to join the spokes-dwarf in the one square of light that graced the centre of the room. I couldn't help but note the stark contrast between the two. This dwarf was worse than the others had been, more far gone. The light accentuated all of his flaws; the creeping black capillaries were visible through his taut skin, swelling polyps blossomed at his temples, and those same, lifeless eyes fixated on the vibrant, amber-brown ones. Standing across from him, Garrett was flawless.

"The master wants you. I don't ask why."

"So, its Corypheus who's after me?"

"What Corypheus wants. Corypheus gets. From us, or from someone." So much for answers.

Garrett let out a ragged sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, frustration was written plainly across his face. "Corypheus wants some blood? Sure! Let me just open a vein. How about a kidney too?" He rolled his eyes, just in case anyone hadn't picked up on the sarcasm.

Apparently, the dwarf did not. "Corypheus! We have done as you command! Your sacrifice is here! You will see the surface once more!"

As he made his declaration, another bronto emerged from the shadows, vaulting into the air and pounding its front hooves down in a threatening gesture that quaked the earth. Its captor strained to keep hold of the leash. Too late, we heard Isabella and Varrics' simultaneous cries as the iron portcullis descended behind us with clanging entrapment, separating us from our freedom.

"Bastards!" Isabella cursed, pressing her body to the metal grate before turning with a snarl. The abrupt contortion from generousness to savagery caused the group of dwarves before us to falter, but not for long.

Another round of combat ensued. This time, we were wary of the one human in their midst, clearly a mage. I trapped him in a winter's grasp, and in his helplessness, Garrett cut him down.

The practiced stab, stab, cut, slash, parry, kick, stab recommenced, and I took a moment to carefully scrutinise the battle. I began expelling my mana in measured bursts; freezing and electrocuting, crushing, and throwing great fists of rock that shattered the armour and ribs of my opponents. The bronto stampeded around the fray, enraged with bloodlust.

As a mage and a healer, I had to predict outcomes before they occurred. I needed to be able to gauge whether I could afford to take the offensive, or whether I would need to reserve all of my magic for life wards and healing, or even a revival –I would never be able to forgive myself if I let it come to that though. If I didn't attack, my friends would be more likely to need saving. It was a balancing act.

Something needed to be done about the bronto.

I pulled the atmosphere open in a great rift of crackling electricity, carefully controlling each coruscation to target our enemies. That smell of burning flesh strengthened. The bronto huffed and cowered, confused by the sudden shift in pressure. Terror replaced savagery, and its stampede became unprejudiced. Anyone caught in its wake was crushed beneath its great weight, armour crumpled and I tried not to think about the mangled bodies within. I trusted enough in the astuteness of my friends that they would avoid that fate.

My arms were raised in the air, still stabilising and tweaking my creation, when the dwarves turned their sights on me. I watched an assassin flip backwards, disappearing into the cloud that had erupted from his shattered flask.

I tensed for the inevitable strike.

"Oh no you don't!" Garrett taunted, he scythed through the air, hammering the assassin out of stealth. In the same swift motion, he brought his greatsword back around in an arc, carving through the dwarfs leather armour. Eviscerated, the assassin fell to the ground, blood leaking messily from his abdomen.

I exhaled.

The bronto continued its charge around the room, but its motions were simultaneously jerky and sluggish. Both sides of the battle had weakened it, but the Carta had all fallen now, the only vestige of their attack was the distressed beast; it continued its stampede, trampling over the bodies of its fallen masters.

Carver brought his greatsword down on its neck with finality, and it staggered to the ground, pawning and thrashing, oozing blood and gore. It trailed a dark red streak through the dirt as it fought to regain its footing. Varric's bolt between those two fearful, black eyes ended its suffering. Its body went limp.

I hated killing the brontos as much as I hated killing the brainwashed dwarves. Whatever riches Corypheus had promised them, it had been a lie. They were disposable to him. He had never meant for them to live. It was a disgusting waste of life. They were a means to an end for Corypheus… but to what end?

There was an alluring sound of shimmering weightlessness, and we turned collectively to search for its source. A strange blue light emanated from under their leader's corpse. He lay face down where we had felled him, and the shimmering luminosity looked as though it were trapped beneath him and searching for an exodus.

Garrett roughly nudged the body over with his foot, releasing the light. I saw the blue glow reflected onto his face, illuminating the underside of his features, marred by the blood of his enemies. Garrett's hard expression changed to quizzical as he took in the strange phenomenon.

"What the?"

And of course, he crouched down and took hold of the clearly magical and unknown light. I heard a strangled gasp, and I knew the pitiable noise had come from my constricted throat.

The radiance was in his hands, and it strained its confines, growing and burning with such brightness that it seared my retinas. Garrett shouted in distress. I wanted to run to him, to hold him and protect him; but I couldn't see for the burning light. Was he okay?

It dimmed, and I tried to blink away the white spots that swam over my vision. I saw him, still upright, but the glow had flooded into him. The fissures that cracked his skin looked too familiar. They burned and flared; gold, where mine were blue.

"What is this?" Garret's voice was strained.

I took one fumbling step towards him, but there was a force emanating from him that made my progress impossible. I took another shuffling step.

In his hands, the glowing key that he had picked up had been replaced by a greatsword. Gold and spiked, embedded with large red stones; it was unlike any weapon I had seen before. I could feel the power, radiating from Garret now too. It was inside him. The glow subsided and I caught him just as his body slumped a fraction, but he remained on his feet. He squeezed my forearm comfortingly, letting me know that he was okay.

A steely resolution flooded his features and he smiled through it, "This is going to take me to Corypheus." I felt my mouth fall open in utter disbelief. What would possess him to think that was a good idea? Garret's smile widened in response to what must have been a comic expression. He gently pushed my jaw upwards with one armoured finger, "Chin up sweetheart, I know what I'm doing."

Andraste's flaming ass, I hoped so.


	6. Chapter 6: Anders

**Chapter 6: Anders**

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><p>Garret weighed his new weapon in his hands, getting a feel for the heft and balance of the thing. It was ornate, with intricate carvings and inlets. Anyone would think the sword was more for show than anything else, but I could feel it pulsating with power and something indescribably magic. He ran his calloused finger over the detail, and a smile tweaked at the corner of his mouth.<p>

We had all seen the two surviving dwarves scuttle away into the shadows, but had cared little to take chase, pausing instead to gather some health potions that the dwarves had not had a chance to use. You can never have too many health potions. We trudged slowly after the escapees, anticipating a poorly planned ambush. Isabella walked lightly, half a step ahead of Garrett, scrutinizing the dusty floor for traps.

The corridor before us was lengthy, and picketed with thickly carved wooden beams down the middle. It looked as though someone had planted a line of broad trees, but for their uniformity and squareness

The corridor before us was lengthy, and picketed with thickly carved wooden beams. It looked as though someone had planted a line of broad trees, but for their uniformity and squareness. The columns had dropped their burdens in some places, and the absence of roofing let the natural light pour in to bathe an occasional swatch of rotten floorboards. They groaned when I walked over them. I turned my head upwards to see the pale sun, high in the centre of the cloudless sky, as though it were peeking in to note our progress.

As we walked, I felt the taint rise up in my senses again. It was like a niggling feeling, or a sound, or a smell. It had been bothering me for days, but until now, I could console myself with the knowledge that it lay well beneath us.

Ahead, the beams vaulted to a point and I became acutely aware that we were gradually descending.

Our path was obscured by a thick grey fog which gave the end of the corridor a transient quality, as though we would fall sharply, or simply disappear if we tried to travel it. The corruption was down there, and I knew there was a web of it, creeping tendrils that opened up to the Deep Roads and the darkspawn. It was like a living, breathing thing beneath us and I hated it.

Despite my misgivings, I followed Garret down the incline and into the pit of taint. I would go anywhere for him. Besides, we could always walk right back out again.

As it happened, there were stairs; great sturdy ones made from slabs of stone. It was all very dwarven; very Deep Roads. Torches heralded us downward and they lit upon two stout figures fleeing us. We quickened our gait to a run, hurtling down the stairs in the heat of pursuit.

I felt the magic seal itself before we turned to see the shimmering opaque barrier that blocked our path back out of the tunnels. Andraste's ass! I should have realised that would happen, I could feel the magic now, it was so obvious, but I had been too distracted by the taint. It was so thick here, and I could feel darkspawn near us. But now we had a more pressing matter at hand. We were trapped; trapped with the darkspawn and the corruption.

I felt as though I needed to breathe consciously. The air was thinner, and poisonous. I didn't want to let it into my body, but I felt like I needed more and more of it. I drew in a great lungful of air. My heart pumped jerkily against its rib cage and I felt as though the pale skin of my chest would bruise from the incessant pounding.

I could hear my pulse: too fast. We were trapped.

It was like a cage, asphyxiatingly suppressing.

Like isolation: alone, with no room to move or breathe. Salty food, torturous pain and humiliation. Abandoned without another voice or glance or touch. Without hope. It was entrapment and agony and hunger and fear, and hopeless loneliness and suffering.

I closed my eyes. I needed to escape this memory. I could hear my breath coming sharp and fast and I counted out the seconds, timing each ragged pant, taming my nerves and my lungs.

I exhaled, and opened my eyes.

The orange barrier rippled and throbbed. In my mind, it was personified. It was my jailor and my oppressor. I wanted to hurt it, break it. I hurled a stonefist at its surface. The rock splintered to dust.

A melodic, throaty chuckle broke through my hysteria, "Note to self, don't try walking through the orange pulsating thing. Thanks Anders."

No. Not alone. Never alone.

Garrett smiled warmly at me, as though attacking magical barriers hadn't been a stupid, reckless and impulsive thing to do. Had he witnessed the whole of that? No, I stood in darkness. It would be impossible for him to see the slickness of sweat on my skin, the way an army of pores stood at attention over my entire body, the way my hands trembled and my eyes shone with irrational fear.

No. Not, irrational. I had been here before. It was a lot better than solitary, but it was still the Deep Roads.

He stepped closer to me. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Two dwarven corpses lay in the dirt a few metres away. Had I missed that?

I nodded and fought with my enclosed throat for a fraction of a second too long, to keep my voice level when I said, "I'm fine."

"Now, I'm not calling you a liar Anders, but don't lie to me. I can tell when something is wrong and you are not fine. Is it the roads?" His features were wrought with anxiety and he spoke faster now, taking both of my hands in his, "I shouldn't have brought you. I knew you hated it. I should have listened when you-"

-"No." I cut him off, "I mean, It's not that. I…I'll explain later," and because his brow was still crumpled with worry and guilt I rearranged my features into a shallow smile and said, "I promise."

"Good." He kissed me on the forehead and then gently tugged my hands, urging me to turn around.

Before us, a flimsy, wrought iron fence separated our party from a near-vertical drop where the cave opened up into a vast, yawning chasm. Its depth was endless. On either side of that black-grey expanse were columned buildings that stretched upward to the fractured ceiling. The sun's light poured down into the cavern, travelling in bright streaks from the edges of the towers. By the time it reached us, that pure, white sunlight had become patchy and dull, but its presence made the Deep Roads seem infinitely easier to bear.

"There's a whole tower down here!" I gasped. "I've never seen anything like it."

Garret looked only at me, he smiled.

They were grand, dwarven, buildings. Proud and strong like the race that had built them. Crumbling bridges arched across the water to connect the two towering structures. The architecture of the uniting bridges crumbled in places and I thought of sandy-haired twins, separated but reaching out to one another over an impossible distance.

I became aware of the constant plunging drip sound that resonated around us as the beads that clung to stalactites and tree roots plummeted onto cold stone. They pooled in little wells of erosion and then overflowed and plunged and dripped again. The smell was earthy and wet. The whole picture was eerily beautiful. Archaic in its magnificence; it was haunting.

Being here in the Deep Roads again dredged up all of those Warden memories: the good and the bad. But I was not that person anymore, those weren't my memories. I could never be that Anders again, but I could always remember. I turned to look Garret in those deep amber eyes of his, "I'm scared. Hold me?" It was an echo of easier times.

Garret's smile became a smirk, "and you say I need to learn 'time and place'?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but stopped as something dark and twisted and massive rushed at the periphery of my senses. I froze, and the forgotten jibe hung there on my tongue. No, this was much closer than the periphery. It was loud, like a fierce shriek in my ears. Carver was already in his fighting stance, he must have sensed them too.

Garrett's brow furrowed in concern, "Anders, what is it?"

"Darkspawn."

That one, weighted, word saw Garrett with drawn blade, standing with his legs shoulder width apart, staring accusingly into the tunnels before us, daring the creatures to show themselves. The weight of that name resonated. For Garret, it carried the battered corpse of his sister, his devastated homeland, the bodies of his fellow deserted countrymen, and on some level, it had cost him his younger brother as well. It was an unequivocal loss, for both of us.

"Which way?" Garrett asked, glaring at the door before us as though he could see straight through its splintering form.

"The majority are coming from across the bridge," I supplied, "they'll be upon us in a minute. There's also a smaller hoard to the right, further back."

Varric visibly cringed and we broke into a run, "and they wonder why I prefer the surface."

"Right," Garrett paused to kick down the studded door that barred our path, "Carver, you take the right, I'll go left with Isabela."

Carver's face began to fold into its familiar scowling expression, as though he would protest, but he overcame his displeasure. Perhaps he realized that his brother was letting him at them alone. His features smoothed. He was part of the taint brigade now after all, he should be useful. He nodded assent.

"Anders, cover us. Varric, stay behind Carver and watch his back."

Isabella had already vanished from sight, using the shadows for stealth. I imagined her sleuthing through the dark corners of this cavernous place, the places that the taint clung most firmly, I pitied her then. Varric and I stood with our backs to the broken door; I with my staff held out before me defensively, Varric cradling Bianca, lovingly fingering the supply of bolts strapped to his belt.

"Garrett…" I could feel the mass of them, pouring across the narrow bridge, "Hurry. They're here."

With that, he lunged to the left with a heated battle cry. I followed dutifully. He didn't make it more than a hundred meters before barrelling into their mass, swinging his greatsword effortlessly in a wide arc before him. The battle erupted, and the ringing clash of steel on steel resounded through the eerie chasm, or more often than not, the wet, the fleshy sound of steel through darkspawn.

For a moment, I glimpsed Isabela as she pounced on the back of the genlock alpha, driving her twin daggers into his exposed neck and twisting them, that wicked grin never falling from her features. The genlock crumpled to the floor, his cervical spine mangled.

I drew on my mana pool and gathered a powerful sphere of crackling energies in my hands, then unleashed it on the hoard. It centred on one huge genlock, consuming him in a wrath of heat and energy, searing his skin. It smelt harsh, like charcoal and poison. He crumpled to the ground, but not before the lightning jumped out from him in arcs, branching out to its brethren. I controlled the currents, steering each jumping strike of electricity away from Garret, who was slicing vigorously. He looked like he would have less fun cutting cake at his own birthday party. He would probably make a similar mess of the job too though, I laughed.

The darkspawn that had been struck by the arching electric charge were momentarily debilitated. Garrett took the opportunity to dive through the mass of them, hacking and slashing with his sword, black ichor spurting violently back at him. The whole channel reeked of that venomous, acrid smell. I remembered the taste.

There was Isabela again, her daggers slid between gaps in the darkspawns' crude armour with deadly precision, quick as whips and with a sound like knives being sharpened but one hundred times faster. Axillary here, a sweeping slice over femoral arteries, carotid, and I would say she nicked the spinal cord too, judging by the priapism. Kicking off of the spent darkspawn, she spun into the air, landing crouched on the shoulders of a genlock. From this vantage point, she drove both maliciously curved daggers into his eyes.

And then I felt something, not with my Warden senses, but with my magic: emissary. A fireball exploded next to Garrett in response to his roaring litany of taunts, by no means empty threats. It barely missed him. For a moment, mid-swing, he looked back at me accusingly. Not me, love.

I drew on my primal energies, gathering a mass of rock from the environment. I held it out from myself and pushed inwards, compacting it.

"Down!" I screamed. Garret parried a blow and spun, pressing his body against the wall of the cavern. Isabela was invisible to me, but I trusted her agility.

"Die, Bastard!"

The compressed stone hit the emissary in the chest like a great fist, and it was knocked to the ground. My mana was slowly waning, but I pulled more, and summoned a mighty tempest, positioned directly above the emissary, still far enough away from Garret and Isabela. The lightning cracked down from it, striking the emissary and its surrounding brethren repeatedly. They floundered, trying to escape the torrent.

Isabella's voice rung out amidst the clanging metal and ferocious battle cries. It was directed at me, "I could use some bandages… or a strong drink!"

My eyes roamed the skirmish; it was only a second before I found her. Not a good sign, she was usually so quick and invisible. Her easy rhythm was gone. She stumbled and faltered.

She was injured, but still fighting. It was clear that she was tiring; each blow was less precise, delivered with less force. There was a thin slice across her thigh that was leaching blood down her leg and into her boot. I gestured, and a wave of healing energies washed over her. The effects were instantaneous, her fighting was quicker, invigorated. Having regained her agility, she dodged a blow from the butt end of a Hurlock's jagged blade, one which had been targeted for her previously wounded leg. I checked Garrett: still carving a relentless path through the swath to eviscerate the weakened emissary. He thought he was invincible, and it was hard not to believe him. The darkspawn were pretty well cleaned up now.

I heard a yelp from behind, "Blondie!" and Varric barrelled past me.

Those two must have finished with their path. I turned. No, not quite. Three darkspawn were following Varric, while Carver cleaved along menacingly behind them. They were almost upon me. I grasped at the last of my manor, pulling moisture from the walls and throwing it in a desperate wave at the three remaining darkspawn, freezing the water in sharp, deadly spikes that very nearly reached Carver. The darkspawn were encased, immobile.

Frustrated, Carver brought his blade down on each consecutively, easily shattering their forms.

"This is much… wetter than I remember the Deep Roads." I spoke through heavy, panting gasps. The adrenaline was waning now, and our homeostatic needs won out. Carver joined me, putting his hands on his knees to support himself, he inhaled heavily.

"And thank Andraste for that," Varric said, clapping a hand on my back before walking past to scavenge as many bolts as he could from the thawing corpses, "I was almost out of these. Urgh, and I think I got blood on my coat." I laughed then, the air leaving my spent lungs in a raspy, breathless sound; Varric was covered in blackened blood.

Garrett trotted up to us, beaming, elbows deep in the black ichor of his victims. The bastard didn't even look tired.

"I was trying to be discreet about it, but I've been itching for another good fight. That was excellent."

"We just finished with the Carta! Really brother?"

"Yes but, that was a proper fight."

"I'll say." Isabela had reappeared, adjusting her corset and wiping the black mess from her hands and face. She groaned and turned to me, "Nothing like a near death experience to perk you right up. Though you could have been a bit quicker, Anders." she said with a pout, "I will never get these stains out."

But there was a faltering in that familiar expression.

"Alright," I said, straightening myself, "let me look at you." Isabela made another of those suggestive faces that were probably involuntary for her, but then her brow creased and her eyes widened with apprehension. Sighing, she lifted the piece of her tunic that was stained crimson so I could see the tanned, unblemished and completely intact skin of her thigh. All that remained of her injury was the bloodstains that smeared her skin and clothing.

"I'll be alright, won't I?" It was barely a whisper, not enough for the others to hear. I couldn't answer just yet. I leant down to more closely inspect the surface of her skin. There was none of the tell-tale creeping black lines of the taint running through capillaries, but I let my fingers trail carefully across her skin anyway, reaching out with my magic to feel for corruption. I had to be sure. Yes, her blood was clean, I sighed with relief.

"You're fine, Isabela. No poison." I looked up at her with a supportive smile on my face, only to find her devilish grin had returned.

"Oh wow Hawke, I know what you mean." Her own brand of playful banter flooding back to replace her previous display of anxiety. I was becoming increasingly certain that it had been my imagination, "He is so delicate! So good with his hands!" She purred, arching her back in a convincing performance of ecstasy. My hand jumped so quickly from her body it was almost embarrassing.

"Oh, grow up," I said, with a chuckle that joined the chorus of laughter. I got to my feet, making sure to shoot a look at Garret that said 'we are going to have a serious talk about boundaries and over-disclosure, later.'

"Anders…" I turned back at the whisper and my eyes met Isabela's again. Her voice had returned to that pitch that the others couldn't hear, "Thank you. I mean it."

"It was nothing," and with that, she hitched her mask back on and the moment passed. Honest gratitude; the woman never failed to surprise me. She was not nearly as selfish as she pretended to be.


	7. Chapter 7: Hawke

**Chapter 7: Hawke**

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><p>"Oi, brother! Mage! You had both better come look at this!"<p>

Carver stood before an ornate, metal-wrought, gryphon symbol that was mounted on the wall. It looked positively foreboding.

It was a crest, spotted with rust and obscured by decades of accumulated grime and dust. Compounding this were the resilient tree roots that had crept through the ceiling's fault lines, gradually swelling over time. The force had strained the roof to fracture and rift; and sand and rubble had sifted through, piling on the stone floor.

The same crest was mirrored on Carver's polished armour; the Grey Wardens' symbol. But that wasn't what he was looking at.

Encased in the gryphon's clawed grasp was a pulsating red orb of light.

Carver pointed bluntly at it, and then broadened his gesture with a sweeping motion to encompass the entire room. All around us, there were these strange orbs, each one a nebulous sphere of reflected light. There was a second in another crest, and three more were imprisoned behind a golden barrier beside us. Behind it, a shadowy figure lurked just beyond proper comprehension; a twisted kind of black shape that looked vaguely familiar in an 'I do not have fond memories of you' kind of way.

"Those're magic." It wasn't phrased as a question, but I felt like Carver wanted an answer. That was probably why he had called Anders over. I was certainly not the best person to front questions concerning strange, magical paraphernalia.

I turned back to the orb before us, it certainly looked magic. It rippled and waned, flaring with energy and power, brighter than the others, like a tiny suspended star; a red dwarf. It was a curious thing, bouncing and spinning as it did. I wanted to know what it felt like, what it meant. I reached an arm out towards it.

Behind my shoulder, I heard Anders make that little stifled noise in his throat that he always does when he is worried about me. How adorable.

Anders had often complained about my compulsion to touch unknown, dangerous things. Said I was curious and cat-like; adoring of everything that shone or moved differently. His words, not mine. I understood that to mean that Anders loved that about me. He liked cats after all.

So, that little noise meant, 'Keep up the good work being irresistible, Hawke. I will ravish you later.' Score one Hawke.

As my plated fingers broke through the lucent edge of the sphere, a pleasant, tingling warmth encased them, like a thousand benevolent pin-pricks. Then the orb disappeared, enveloping itself in a small implosion; a folding collapse. My fingers were cold again.

Simultaneously, a blue light burst into life next to the barrier, stealing its brightness from the dulled orbs. A deep voice boomed out from it. I jumped in fright and drew my blade at the shadowy figure that stood within.

"Be bound here for eternity: hunger stilled, rage smothered, desire dampened, pride crushed. In the name of the Maker, so let it be." Its pinpoint blue eyes stared out at me with such corporeality, but the form was transient. It wasn't real. Still, its voice resonated around the chamber with odd presence and familiarity, and then it was gone.

"What was that?" I gaped, "What did he say? Bound? Did he just curse us with hunger and no desire?" I didn't feel any different, but there had been power in that voice. It wasn't just a proclamation; it had felt weightier than that. "What in the void just happened?"

"There is no way I am forfeiting my desire, Hawke." Isabella had appeared behind me, Varric in tow. Both must have been roused by that piercing voice.

"Sounded like a curse to me. We better not be trapped here for good, Hawke. Do you know how hard I work to stay above ground? Stupid, stubborn ancestors and their tradition. What do you think, Blondie?"

Anders wore his thinking face. Varric always called it his brooding face. Thinking made it sound more appealing. "I'm not sure," he finally said. Obviously he hadn't thought enough yet.

I decided to give him time to ponder, and approached the second Grey Warden crest on the opposite wall. I grasped the centre orb, feeling nothing concrete in its ephemeral light except that fleeting, tickling, heat. Then it too, disappeared.

Carver broke in. "You dolt, Garret. That was father's voice."

I looked back at the spot where the blue glow had appeared, encasing that captivating, compelling voice; my father's voice? Carver was so sure. I had been far older than he was when father had left us, why couldn't I remember that?"

Varric must have registered my confusion because he intervened, "How can you be so sure, Junior?"

Carver's reaction was unexpected; he averted his baby blue eyes from mine and glued them to his own foot, "Sounds exactly like Garret. You can't forget a voice if it's always there." The last was said with a disgruntled kind of eye roll.

Anders laughed softly, "I thought that too. Which made me think it was a demon, and if it's taking the form of your loved ones then… But that wasn't any kind of offer, it wasn't even a question…" his brow scrunched and his lips pressed together in a hard line. He was muttering the words back to himself. I walked cautiously over to the barrier, being careful not to disturb his flow of contemplation. Only the middle orb was aglow now. The rest had deepened into hovering, spinning energies, like blood swirling down a drain. Anders was still absorbed.

"Mmm?" I prompted.

He began again, "Your father has definitely been here before. He could have left certain… impressions, but the magic that would cause a resonance like that would have to be..." he sighed, breaking off the torrent of words. He pressed the knuckles of his long hands against his eyes, trying to squeeze out the right thoughts, or push back the wrong ones.

Obviously he had thought too much now. Everything he had said had been half formed and disjointed. "I don't know, Garret. I haven't seen anything like it before. It could be a trick. Be careful."

I flashed him a smile and thrust my thumb pointedly at my chest, "My middle name, sweetheart." With that said, I plunged my other hand through the golden partition to touch the centre sphere.

The wall of golden light was throbbing, but it felt incomplete, like we had broken it.

I thought about the similar partition that barred our path to the surface, and then, disturbingly, I remembered watching Anders' hurtling stonefist turn to dust when it had touched it. I looked back to my hand and it was, reassuringly, still whole, though it felt strangely detached.

The barrier had opened to admit my hand and, as though I were a catalyst, it began to devour itself. The sensation had a ripple effect and the barrier consumed itself from the centre like burning parchment.

I grasped the last bright orb, and as my fingers closed around it, the form behind was revealed.

It was a shade. Of course it was. And I had released it.

Easy enough to dispatch though; the five of us killed it quickly, as well as the other demons that it summoned for aid.

That voice rung out again, and I turned to see that my father's impression had appeared again. "I can do nothing about the Warden's use of demons in this horrid place." It was almost like that blue conflagration was pacing towards us, "But I will have no one say any magic of mine ever released one into the world."

He began to taper as he reached us, and then he was gone. I stood, mouth agape, and let the echoes of my father fade into the stone. Even after he had disappeared, I felt the magic of him pass over me as though he had walked straight through.

"Huh" Varric said, voicing my thoughts exactly. I tried to contemplate the meaning of what my father had said. What would he be doing in a Grey Warden Fortress? And what were the Grey Wardens doing keeping demons as pets? At least father's head was in the right place: not releasing demons into the world. That was a legacy I could proudly follow. It all sounded very dark though. His voice held a bitter edge and there was something like hatred tinging his words. I had never heard him use that tone in my life.

The plot thickens.

As did the silence. I cleared my throat. "See, that wasn't so bad now was it? Consequence, once again, averted."

Anders frowned at me, as did Carver, but his glare I could weather.

"Hawke," Varric scolded, "I know I have built you this valiant, fearless persona, but that doesn't entitle you to go touching strange, magic things, especially if they have demons inside them!"

Isabella quirked an eyebrow at Anders and he blushed and looked away.

I dove in heroically to redirect the conversation, "Varric, you have it backwards. The story fodder I provide you is practically gift-wrapped. No embellishments needed." I gave him a smirk, "You're welcome."

He barked his laughter, "You haven't heard the half of them."

That was a bit concerning.

We walked on.

"More darkspawn," Anders mumbled, and his pale, spidery fingers were at his temples again.

I rolled my shoulders beneath my champion armour. It wasn't heavy, but the day was getting on and I was tired of carrying it. I swung the flat blade of my new sword off of my back, liking the way it felt. It was very balanced, very attuned to me and my fighting style, like it was made for me. I hoped Carver was jealous.

I bared my teeth and growled down the passage, breaking in to a run.

"There aren't that many, brother!" Carver kept pace beside me.

"Well I'm sorry I don't have taint whispering in my ears. Be nice if_ someone_ could let me know." I kept up my pace, not wanting to slow to a walk and admit defeat.

"Tell that to your boyfriend."

Whoa! Was that Carver acknowledging Anders and I? It felt weird. I preferred it when Carver would just awkwardly extricate himself from any situation in which the subject of my relationship with Anders came up. I hoped to the Maker it would never happen again. Having our relationship there to make him uncomfortable was fine, but this acceptance? It was too much power in his hands.

"I'll mention it tonight." I threw in a wink for good measure.

We rounded the corner and Carver swung his blade aggressively into the nearest hurlock. Disappointingly, there were only three of the creatures. I let my new weapon slice across the remaining two, before dodging a retaliation strike and then cleaving through one's armoured skull.

Isabella was next to me, blades flying, and the other Hurlock's skin soon hung off of its body in tattered strips. The ichor was thicker than blood, and it smelt putrid. I kept my mouth closed as it spurted back at me. The smell was burning now with conjured electricity. Isabella's frayed darkspawn collapsed to the ground.

Carver was still running, he barrelled into the next room towards a crouched figure that looked to be sifting through the debris. A figure that was decidedly not a darkspawn.

Carver collided straight into an opaque blue shield that materialized in front of him and Anders was running beside me now, shouting out to my brother. "Carver, no. Not darkspawn."

What in the Maker's name was that thing?

On the floor, Carver groaned. His eye was already swelling from the force of his collision. Anders crouched down next to him.

I walked forward. The -_man?_- before us was hunched over and he had looked up at our approach. He was so insignificant in the cathedral-like room. The lighting was low, but it was clear the room once held impressive grandiose. Now, creeping with taint and collapse, it had fallen into a severe state of disrepair; much like the unkempt form that hobbled towards us.

"The key?" He rasped. Great, another deranged Carta member looking for my damn sword.

He madly rushed towards us, limping in his heavy _Grey Warden issue_ armour. Odd.

His gait was laboured and deformed, he held his arm up at an awkward angle, and he walked on the sides of his feet. He wouldn't meet my eyes when he reached us, but I could see that cloudy taint-ness that was characteristic of the crazy ones. Underneath the corruption, he wore the battle scars of a fierce fighter.

"Did they find it? The dwarves, I heard them… looking… digging…" He squinted around, looking very paranoid. I noticed his beard was coming out in clumps. "How do you bring the key here?"

"Oh, you mean this thing?" I let my sword fall from its sheath, making sure there was a semblance of intimidation in the gesture, "Don't really see the key resemblance."

"Magic, old magic, it is. Magic from the blood. It made the seals. It can destroy them."

I let out an exaggerated sigh, "You aren't another one of Corypheus's friends are you?"

"Do not say his name!" He spoke in a fervent, hushed whisper, his head swivelled furtively on his shoulders, "He will hear you! Do not wake him. Not when you hold the key."

"Let me guess, you want to drink my blood too?"

"Blood? The blood of the Hawke? Are you the Hawke? But you hold the key! The key to his death! Yes, I can show you out, yes."

Anders and Carver had joined me now. I wondered what had taken them so long. Were they swapping Grey Warden secrets?* I couldn't stand Anders paying attention to my brother. I knew that sounded petty even in my own head.

I turned back to the thing before me. This was wrong. Was he a man? Or a darkspawn? But he stood, or crouched rather, he spoke, he thought independently, he had a name: Larius. He said he would help us to find the way out.

Was this really the kind of guy I wanted to be following through the Deep Roads?

"Because I always like to follow the advice of tainted, crazy people."

Isabela's brazen smirk tweaked at the corner of her mouth, "that does seem to be your type, yes." Her wicked eyes fell to Anders again. Could that woman go ten minutes without taunting him?

And what was that supposed to mean anyway?

"Excuse me?" Anders sounded _so_ offended.

I looked between Anders and Larius, mentally comparing the two. No. Not even close. Anders was, admittedly, a little bit crazy, but who was I to point the finger? And he would never be _that_ tainted. He was a Grey Warden, granting him taint immunity. Or something, I don't pretend to understand.

"Never mind," she said, but the smirk never left her face. I grasped Anders' hand in a show of support, or maybe just to tell him to lighten up. It was only a joke, if a tasteless one, but the man was nothing if not defensive. Even gauntleted, I felt like I could feel his warmth. I squeezed his fingers gently and let go.

"No," Larias continued, "not crazy. Trust me. I know the prison's secrets."

Oh, someone who is familiar with the trap of an ancient evil fortress that is trying to kill us, who better to trust?

Something about the key, seals, key, taint, seals, blood. Awesome. I've got this whole escape thing sorted. Stab the seals.

"Not back. Not up. Only way out is down and through the heart… down. Down in the depths." He scampered off furtively. I waved goodbye.

Carver stepped forward. "Careful. Things down here, they can get complicated. That man, and how corrupted he is? Remember that. That's what I'm fighting for."

"I'll arrange a 'thanking queue' when we're back in Kirkwall."

"Sure, make fun of the end of the world." When did Carver become so damn serious all the time?

"Best time for it, I'd think."

"Well... good."

"Good." Final word. Always, "Alright, let's get going then."

He strode forward, leading the party. Isabella skipped ahead to walk alongside him, "You've certainly...filled out, Carver…" A conversation I did not want to hear.

I drew back to Anders' side. He was absorbed with the path that his boots took along the stone road. He kicked a pebble and it skittered off to the side. I let my arm fall over his shoulders, and his whole body jumped; startled like a tharn rabbit. His eyes were wide for a second before softening.

"I'm sorry. I was just… thinking."

"Cheer up sweetheart." He managed a smile-like contortion. I knew he could have done better. "What was that thing? He was… _different_ from the Carta."

Ahead, Carver turned with a start, and Anders almost stumbled into him.

"You mean you never told him!" It was an accusation overlain with bewilderment.

"Told me what?" Anders couldn't meet his eyes. Had he lied to me?

"I thought you claimed to care for him! What? You were just going to spring that on him when it was time for your calling?"

Anders' face was knotted with a pained grimace. He fidgeted and wiped sweaty palms on his coat. What hadn't been said? He opened his mouth, "I-"

"-I'm not going to be the one to tell him! I was counting on you to have already broken the news!"

"_What_ news!" My voice was louder than I had expected it to be. It practically boomed in the cavernous room. Carver was silenced. He threw up his arms and stomped over to Isabella and Varric, who had stopped walking to pretend they weren't listening to our little domestic.

"Anders, what is he talking about?"

He looked up, his eyes were like pools of liquid amber, shining with something like sadness, or fear, or regret.

"I can't- I-I mean, I _tried_ to tell you, Garret. I really did. But I didn't know how." He sighed heavily, and suddenly all of his burdens and all that he had endured withered next to the momentous action of disclosure. His shoulders slumped. Was talking to me really that hard? "We better stop for the night."

Did I even want to know?

* * *

><p><em><strong>*Anders and Carver were having a little chat about what a Grey Warden who does not die from the Calling feels like to the Warden senses. I imagine it would be darkspawn-like, but not obvious. Anders' has experience with Utha, hence he could distinguish Larius from the darkspawn, where Carver could not.<strong>_


	8. Chapter 8: Anders

**Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Anders**

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><p>Garrett was tired. We all were. Still, he sat next to me by the fireside, staring intensely at me with open eyes and an encouraging smile, waiting for me to start talking.<p>

But what could I say?

The truth. He had said he wanted the truth.

I knew that the longer I sat here, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees and running my fingers through the stubborn tangles of my hair, the worse conclusions he would be forced to draw. But what could be worse?

He leaned forward and squeezed my hand, "Take as long as you need, I'm here for you."

That wasn't what I needed to hear. He was reaching a lifeline out to me, as he always did; helping me clamber from my trench of deceit. I needed him to be angry at me. It was what I deserved. This understanding, this empathy; I couldn't stand it. He should hate me.

When he let go of my hand, he kept the comforting weight of his palm on my thigh.

I had lied to him.

Not directly, but I had never told him either, and wasn't that as bad? He said we would be together until the day we died. I had hated hearing him say that as much as I had loved it; knowing that I would almost certainly die before he did, or become something much worse.

It was the dreaded Grey Warden secret, the worst one that I knew at least; the thing that they couldn't tell the recruits. I didn't blame them; I can't imagine a lot of people would be signing up if they knew that doing so was to stamp yourself with an inescapable expiry date.

You know how it goes: _in death, sacrifice_. Once you're in the Wardens, you're there for life, because the joining is not a cure, it's a calling, Stroud was right.

I took a breath of stale air. It wasn't what I needed.

But this was Hawke. I had to tell him. I wanted to. "I'm trying, love."

I had never planned on letting the taint take me, and I wasn't going to throw myself at the Darkspawn either. With Justice, I had been willing to give myself entirely to the cause, I wasn't sure how, but I was certain I would die to save mages, or to kill Templars. Since Justice's retreat, I hadn't thought about my own death. It was so easy to forget everything in Kirkwall, with Garrett. I had almost believed that things would be perfect forever. The lies piled up, even I believed them.

But I couldn't lose Garrett; he was all that I had. I had been a drowning man in the city of Kirkwall, cast adrift in a torrent of floodwaters. When our lives intersected, Garrett had taken my hand and pulled me to him when he could so easily have let me be swept away in the current. He had saved me from my desolate fate. He was my anchor to the world, to myself. I needed him more than he could ever contemplate. If he let go, I would be ripped away, hurtled down in the waters of Vengeance's wrath and despair.

In truth, I had tried to tell him before, many times. Each time he would say something beautiful and romantic about us; our future, growing old together. No Kirkwall, no drama, no one else's problems, just us. Maker take me, his idealised notions crippled my resolve every time, undermining all my good intentions.

"I just… don't know how"

"Oh come on, it's easy. Just open your mouth and let it all pour out." That reassuring smile, he was ready to accept whatever I was going to tell him. He was already prepared to forgive me, but he didn't know just what for yet. When he knew, would he feel the same? "I doubt anything you can say would be any worse than what I'm imagining."

Yes, it is so much worse. I couldn't look him in the eyes. Why was that so hard? I loved those eyes.

"I'll make it easier for you: What was Larias? A new, mutant Darkspawn? Is it a deathly Grey Warden secret that can't possibly be divulged to me? Oh, I know: Grey Warden children are all hybrid, darkspawn-human crossovers or something? I hardly think that's going to be a problem for us-"

"-Garrett." He stopped his outpour with such abrupt sincerity, he was ready to listen. I was as ready as I ever would be to start explaining.

"It's nothing like that… Grey Wardens can't even have children," I was stalling again. I swallowed the lump of malformed words that were caught in my throat, "When we… reach a certain point… we have to go on the Calling. I-It's not something I can avoid. We all have to face it."

He looked confused, "Alright then, go on your Calling and when you are done, come home and I'll be waiting for you." I felt my heart shatter. The pieces that were left felt like broken glass, splintering into my lungs. There, they turned to ash: what a feeling. "Scratch that, I'll go with you! Tell the Grey Wardens you aren't leaving without me! I don't see the problem?"

I let out a pitiful moan that barely touched that void of agony where my heart had been. His confusion deepened.

I gripped my hair between my hands. It was tangled and dirty. I felt like ripping it out, to prepare myself for the inevitable pain. How could I tell him?

His hands grasped gently around my wrists, lowering them and detaching the grip I had gained. Fingers laced together, our hands sunk back to my knees. "What is it, sweetheart?"

I couldn't stall any longer. "Larius is –_was-_ a Grey Warden…_ that _is our fate."

He said nothing, but the comforting weight of his hands withdrew from their place on my thighs. I felt compelled then to look up at him, dreading whatever emotion I would see writ across his face: Hatred? Anguish? Accusation?

When my eyes met him, I saw nothing. It was the face that he saved for business dealings and confrontation, nothing but a mask of stoicism. I couldn't see what was really going on behind it. I didn't know if I wanted to.

"…What exactly do you mean, Anders?" He was using my first name. Bitterly, I reminded myself that Anders wasn't even my real name, just another lie.

It was more than just the lies; it was repulsive, knowing what I would become. How could someone love that, on top of all my other problems? He drew back from me. His shoulders were set in a hard line, the weight of so many promises and responsibilities pressing down upon that unrelenting strength.

It hurt to know that some of that weight had been put there by me.

I never meant to hurt him like this, which was probably the reason I had kept on lying and evading. I had dug myself into a hole; each word of false hope for our future together was another shovel of sand. Now I stood in the pit that I had dug for myself, I needed a handhold. I needed to claw myself out but the dirt and rock bit into my skin and I bled. It was hard, but it was the only way.

I sighed, it all needed to come out now. Best get it over with quickly; rip it out like a poisonous barb, lest the toxin spread. "When we take the joining, the Wardens drink the blood of the darkspawn. Those that live are cursed with abilities that make us the only ones who can fight them. But it is not a cure, the ritual only staggers the taints progression, it is inevitable."

"And then?"

"E- Eventually, we succumb to the taint. We hear the call of the Archdemon and the darkspawn, and they call us to our death. We die fighting, or we become… that."

His expression was impassive, but I saw his fingers twitch. I wanted to believe that he was stopping himself from reaching out to me, but I think he'd sooner slap me.

"I'm already dead, Love."

"When you s-said that you couldn't give me a normal life, you didn't… mention anything about leaving me." His face was impassive. Only that hitch in his voice, and the way he carefully articulated each word betrayed him. Was it to stop him from crying or shouting? I didn't know which I would prefer.

"I told you I would break your heart."

Emotion flared back to life in his face, anger now. "Well that certainly encompasses the entire situation, doesn't it Anders?" His voice had a biting edge. "The _absolute least_ you owed me was the truth! You told me about Justice, about Vengeance, and that was all okay. I didn't care! I still don't! Because at least you are fighting him, at least you are still you; at least you were honest with me!"

That's right, hate me, blame me. I never deserved anything else from you. You were always too good for me. I couldn't go on deluding myself; pretending this could last forever.

He had two great handfuls of my coat now, roughly holding me up, willing me to look at him. His eyes bore into mine and there was so much resentment flaring there. Fingers shaking, he dropped me and I crumpled. I couldn't hold myself up, not without him. I was on my knees now.

"Please, Love. I couldn't say."

"Don't hide behind that Grey Warden secret bullshit either!" He was on his feet, his back to me as I knelt in the dirt. "Tell me, Anders, what were you going to do when your time came? Were you even going to tell me? Just hope that I wouldn't notice when your eyes turned white and dead… all those thick black veins." His voice was a whisper now as he pictured it, "just like Carver."

Then he turned to face me again, his eyes were burning with blame and I hated- _hated _myself for making him feel for a second that I was worth his love. He shoved me backwards and I let him, crumpling backwards in the dirt.

"Were you just going to wander off into the wilds and die? Were you even planning on saying goodbye?" His eyes were shinning now and he blinked them in defiance. I didn't want to see him cry, it wasn't him. I had to look away again, ever the coward.

"Why would you make me love you when you were only going to leave me?"

"I tried…" It was all I could say. I didn't have an excuse for him, there was nothing would make this alright, "I tried."

"Garrett!" It was Carver's voice. I blinked up at his form through a film of tears. When had he gotten here? How much had he heard? My tears were falling shamelessly now, but Garrett's still clung to his lids in defiance.

His rage turned on his brother now. "Were _you_ going to tell me either? Or were you just going to leave me too? Bethany… Mother. I can accept that they were my fault, I could have stopped it. But you," he turned back to me, "there is _nothing_ I can do to save either of you now!"

Already on his feet, Garrett made to pace past his brother, shoving him in the process. He was stopped when Carver's fist connected with the side of his jaw. He stumbled backwards, completely unprepared for the blow.

Carver glared at him, rubbing the raw knuckles of his hand "He didn't have a choice, brother! Neither of us did. Do you think they tell you that most of them die, that the ones that don't face a life far worse? No, why would they? They put that cup of blood under your lips and tell you to drink it because that is your only option! There is no glory in our sacrifice!"

Carver was right, I didn't have a choice. Even if I had known everything, I couldn't have chosen differently. I needed to escape, I couldn't go back to the Circle, it wasn't an option. All that awaited me there was isolation, tranquillity, death. The Templars had already caught up with me. I had made my last stand and I had lost again.

I looked up, my vision was clouded but I could still see Carver's vague form, blurred colours, but still there. I recognised his stance, his voice. They belonged to Garrett; resolute and determined. It was a complete role reversal. Garrett stood under his brother, utterly defeated by the confrontation and the force of his own emotion.

Even without the choice to become a Grey Warden: knowing now that this path had led me to Garrett, I couldn't have done differently.

Garrett only blinked at his brother, dumbstruck, before swallowing heavily. Stepping forward, he grasped Carver's broad shoulder to pull him into a bear hug. He shook but did not cry. Carver looked shocked, as though he expected Garrett to hit him back.

"Thank you." Garrett mumbled into that shoulder so like his own, "I'm sorry, brother."

They broke apart. I knew my mouth was still open and there were probably streaky lines on my face where saltwater had cut through dirt. His part having been said, Carver nodded at me, and walked away. That had been far too much of a supportive, affectionate family moment for Carver to want to hang around uncomfortably through its residue.

Garrett turned to face me.

And then he fell and our bodies collided. Still armoured, his metal crashed into me and I was enveloped in strong arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," He whispered it like a mantra. His body was racked with sobs. I felt hot, wet tears against my neck and shoulder now. He was letting go, but I still felt as though I was the one being comforted. He held me so tightly, the metal of his breastplate pressed hard against my chest. I didn't know if I would be able to let him go when he inevitably pulled away. I didn't deserve this. "I- you, you're the one who is dying. I'm being selfish. Why did you let me yell at you like that?"

"No. No! Don't think that way, please." I was shaking my head, he couldn't blame himself for this. It was my failings that had led him here, he didn't need more regrets. Carver was my fault too. If I had only been more cautious all those years ago, Carver would not have to bear my curse today. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

At the same time, if I hadn't been on the expedition, Carver might not still be here. This time, I needed to focus. I had to concentrate. I couldn't let what had happened to Carver come to anyone else. I needed to protect them.

Down here in the filth, encased in Garrett's powerful embrace, with his hot tears seeping in through my coat, his blame and guilt washing over me, it all came hurtling back to me with a vengeance, brutal in its intensity. I could feel the contamination, like a particularly nasty infection, it was airborne, it was all around me. I breathed it in. We all did. Being here, in this place again, it brought everything back, it heightened my awareness. They couldn't feel it; they didn't know how lucky they were.

I had to be vigilant; Garrett was counting on me to alert him to any darkspawn presence. What if it had been him who had not been careful enough all those years ago? What if it was his arteries that the taint had imbued, sinking its corruption deep into his being? I had to protect him. I needed to focus the entirety of my consciousness on the taint, always. It was as ever-present down here as Justice was within me, suffocatingly so. It clung malignantly to the rocks and the walls and the bones that littered the floor.

I thought of Larius, the look of him, the feel of him, so full of taint and blackness. I thought of it creeping through my own body, like an infection. An infiltrator, masquerading a mutualistic relationship, steadily taking more and more until eventually I would succumb to its call. I shuddered involuntarily.

And then I lifted my eyes and his were there to meet my gaze, dark and warm and rimmed with the red of his tears that had all been spent now. I remembered why I was here, who I was with: Garrett. I would follow this man to the Void itself should he ask it of me. He was all that I needed to suppress my cause and my discomfort. He forgave me. Maybe he would see one day that none of it was his fault, and when I died, he would know that there was nothing he could do to save me.

"I just- I could never be the one left behind in an empty world. I need you. I need you both. You're all the family I have left."

"It would kill me to lose you."

He swallowed, and wiped his red-rimmed eyes, "How long?"

I didn't know; five, maybe ten years if I was lucky. I could only shake my head.


	9. Chapter 9: Anders

**Chapter 9: Anders**

* * *

><p>My surroundings were familiar, though I knew I'd never been here before.<p>

It was that sulphur smell, that insubstantial quality that clung to your senses, even after you had awoken. It was the subtle way that my peripheries twisted and warped. The static sound of dreams.

Again, there was that whispering voice, almost like a rush of wind. It was like a seashell pressed to your ear; deceptively captivating, with a note of sinister darkness barely concealed in its timbre.

_Further into the depths. Release us and you will be_ _rewarded._

I'd heard that one before, but never quite like this. Was this really the infamous Corypheus? The voice was faraway; melodic, intoxicating, but it was also louder and more audible than before, and far more insistent.

And then, from much closer, **_"Anders!"_**

I jumped in fright. It was, once again, the booming, resounding voice of Justice.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!"

He ignored me, as direct as ever and always to the point, **_"Don't listen to him Anders."_**

"I'm not a fool, you know. I passed my harrowing. I know not to make deals with demons." I laughed dryly at the bitter irony of my words, what was Justice now if not a demon? He had once told me he possessed no desires. Well, look at us now. "Look how well that turned out for me."

The song remained unbroken, an undercurrent to our conversation, and I realised that my feet were still following it. I didn't want to stop. I didn't look at Justice and the disapproving frown that I knew he wore.

I strode onward, through the winding, distorted path that was laid out before me. It was brown and hazy, with the ominous shadow of the black city cast upon its surface; always the same, never farther or closer, no matter how far I walked.

I passed a great transient structure; a twisting limb, like a tree but tentacle-like. Its surface rippled with red veins and as I watched it, it swelled and shrank. I skirted around it as I walked.

"**_I am no demon, and neither is Corypheus."_**

"Equally as benevolent I assume?" The question was rhetorical; something that my old friend would not have understood. This Justice understood; he had enough of my human experience to educate him now. He chose to ignore the comparison.

"**_He is more than that."_**

_Together we can achieve what you never could, Anders. Release me from this prison. You will have your freedom._

No… that doesn't sound right.

"**_Do not follow it, Anders. There is nothing you can do."_**

"I'm not going to release it, Justice. I just want to know what it is." Did I really believe that? The thought stopped me in my tracks and I stood, staring forward at the solid path before me, rimmed with distortion.

I certainly knew enough of the fade not to trust any of its inhabitants, let alone unleash them from prisons when they asked me to.

I knew their promises and assurances held no truths. How many others had taken from me and falsely promised me my freedom in exchange: the Circle, the Wardens, Justice. All I had ever wanted was my freedom. If I could achieve that, I would have welcomed death himself.

…Hadn't I achieved freedom, though? Was I not living, a known apostate, in a luxurious mansion in hightown, with liberties like friendship and love?

Strikingly, I was reminded that it was not enough. I still had to watch my back, any slip of control could end disastrously, and I had so much more to lose now. But these were selfish reasons; it ran deeper than only that.

Why should I get to experience this freedom, when so many suffer under the oppression of the Templar order?

Do I even deserve this happiness?

-Enough. This is not the time.

Corypheus wanted me to reach him, to release him, but as long as I kept my wits about me, I knew I would not. I wanted to destroy him. If he was present in the fade, could I kill him here? Render him tranquil and defenceless in the mortal realm?

"**_Corypheus is greater than demon, darkspawn, mage and man combined. He is an ancient power."_**

"About as useful as ever I see." So, he is none of those things, or all of them and more? I trudged on, but the song was still no closer or farther. Was he even here, or just his message? I walked faster.

I was completely unprepared to defend myself when Justice's seized me by the head and clamped his iron hand over my mouth and nose.

I flailed at him, striking his plate armour with my feet and my fists. But just like last time, my struggle was futile. The fade was his domain, what was the use in resisting? I wanted air, my head spun, and then unconsciousness took me.

Or was this consciousness?

I became aware again as my eyelids fluttered open. I was in a tangle of drenched sheets, with half of my body still resting on the edge of the two bedrolls that Garrett and I had unfurled beside one another, a lousy imitation of his comfortable four-poster back at the estate.

"Thank the Maker! I was just about to wake you up."

Hawke lounged on his back, propped up on two elbows. He tried to look relaxed, but his agitation was plain as he brushed a concerned hand over my forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that collected in the worry lines on my forehead, deep now that I had my eyes clenched together in pain.

"Mrrph?" I managed through ragged pants, but I was finding it hard to concentrate on Hawke for the first time in my life. It seemed as though a remnant of my dream had followed me to the surface. A far of chorus song, barely audible, but irritating as much as it was enticing; a shallow thrum. It felt as though it had always been there, but had only now been dredged to the forefront of my mind. I concentrated on the noise, but it became no clearer, although now I could feel my temples throbbing to its beat. My stomach roiled.

"You were thrashing around something terrible. And you grind your teeth. It's this horrible grating sound, you aren't going to have any teeth left if you keep that up, and I like you with teeth, so it's much appreciated that you never do that again."

I had dreamt. Not since the first days of my becoming a Warden had I ever had such a strong physiological response to a dream. It must have been bad if I had woken him. The man could sleep through a Templar raid, and those were impossible to sleep through. Or maybe it was just because he knew he would never end up in metal cuffs at the end of one.

My hair had come loose in the night and now it was plastered to my skin in wet, sweat-drenched tangles. I busied my trembling hands by retying it. Once secured, I obliged him by leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his shoulder, followed by a playful bite.

"Ouch, hey!" He writhed away, laughing "Not exactly what I meant, sweetheart."

I smiled up at him, but it was weary. The dream had left me emotionally raw, compounded perhaps by the earlier dramas of the evening. I was spent, physically as well, but I wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight. I felt nausea and migraine battling for control over my pain centres.

Using Garrett's chest as leverage, I made to heave myself up but he caught my wrist and pulled me back to him. The motion caused my stomach to clench and unclench.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't think there's very much to talk about. I'm having trouble recalling it." I lied reflexively.

He hesitated, and I knew that he was struggling not to bring up the issue that we were both so content upon steadfastly ignoring. "Is it… Justice?"

How did I deserve this man? He was perfect.

I sighed and nuzzled my head against his chest. I rose and fell with him.

"Yes. No, I don't know. He isn't… in control if that's what you mean. It's just the fade, and this place." I finished, heaving myself up to my feet, "Go back to sleep, love. I'll go relieve Varric of watch."

He nodded groggily and rolled over.

It was only when I walked away from Garrett that I really developed an understanding for the true effect that that dream had had on my body. Only when his voice was gone, replaced by empty silence, was I once again able to hear that terrible far-off hum. It was a throbbing echo that at once filled me with a terrible dread, causing my supressed nausea to roll to culmination.

I took a great, gasping breath and pulled in a lungful of that foul, decaying smell that the taint carried. The nausea flooded me, and I felt my guts clench in response. I had barely enough time to sprint a short distance from the camp before I retched, splattering acidic bile across the rocks.

Now the stench of the taint mixed with that of my own stomach contents. I felt disgusting as I wiped the mess from around my mouth. My fingers trembled.

I was thankful that Hawke had not witnessed that. He didn't need more of my issues to worry him. He had seen me have nightmares before, but never like this.

I tried to push the disturbing noise away but now that I was aware of it, I found it impossible to ignore.

I breathed in through my nose, using it as a filter for the sickness. Although I knew it didn't matter, you couldn't contract the taint from the air. I just knew it was there. Maybe I deluded myself into thinking that if I didn't breathe it in, my own death would come slower, but I knew I was already gone. Dead already, and was a slow death really the better option? I knew mine was coming, and not in the 'everyone's dying' sense of the word. Death is inevitable on a long enough time line, but mine was scheduled, it was more real. It was imminent and measurable.

Back then, before the Wardens, before Justice, all I had wanted was my freedom. The Wardens had offered it to me, and Maker help me, I took it. But it was flawed, it was backwards. It was inescapable, a desperate pact that would haunt me forever. I had signed my life to them in conscription. I would never be free of it, and I would pay for my selfishness with my life.

And Justice: What would I do now that Justice was back? Should I tell Garrett, or should I deal with him on my own? Experience told me to talk to Garrett, because trying to cope alone always ended so well for me. At the same time though, Justice had been reasonable. He had only spoken to me, he had told me not to listen to that noise again. I agreed with him.

If there was a time to have taken Justice's advice, it had passed. With the depth of this silence, it was damn near impossible to ignore that thrumming, migraine-inducing song.

What was that sound? It was fear and want, wrapped up in one mesmerising, nauseating symphony. The voice of Corypheus. I rolled the idea over in my mind. What could he be that his voice was so similar to everything I had read on the Calling?

_He is greater than demon, darkspawn, man and mage._

At least one thing was certain now, whatever it was. The song was not benevolent. I would have to be more careful in the fade, and I would try to block it out in my waking hours.

I cleaned myself up as best I could, and trudged over to where Varric sat with his back to me, Bianca slung over his shoulder. I stood behind him.

This could be a play. Varric: sitting straight-backed and staring away from me into the darkness, me looming over him. These positions held so much plot and counter-plot potential. This could be our final act.

He spoke without turning, "You okay, Blondie?"

"You heard that did you?"

He chuckled, deep and throaty, and the ambiguity of our postures was clarified. I moved to sit beside him.

"The whole of the Deep Roads heard that."

We laughed together, and then sat for a moment in silence. I savoured the simple pleasure of Varric's company. He was a good friend to me. I wondered if he knew that.

And then the silence began to creep in again, clearing a path for that throbbing song that lay in wait for these opportunities to swell up in a great crescendo. I vocalised, again. I needed to.

"More deep roads, why did we agree to do this again?"

"Because I love trouble, and you think Hawke is cute. That wasn't a serious question was it, Blondie?"

I smiled, "he is pretty cute." Varric chuckled again. He did that so often, so easily.

I told him not to wake Isabella, that I would take her watch. Maker knew I wasn't about to get anymore rest tonight. He thanked me and left for his bedroll, abandoning me with the engorged silence, the whispering song. A ceaseless tremor had developed in my hands and I clutched at my coat to stifle it. It typified the mental struggle that I grappled with for the rest of the night.


	10. Chapter 10: Hawke

**Chapter 10: Hawke**

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><p>It didn't matter how long we stayed here, I would never get accustomed to the dank foulness of this place. Our group's collective mood needed a serious upheaval.<p>

"I'd like to know who this "Corypheus" is. With a name like that, he's bound to go "mwa-ha-ha" at some point. I just know it."

Anders forced his lips to quirk upwards for me, but the expression didn't touch his eyes. He looked worse. He'd never acted this strange. Usually he at least rolls his eyes at my jokes if he isn't in the mood to be cheered up, but this is different. It's like he isn't even hearing me. His lips fell back into a thin line.

He was pale and his eyes were glued to the blackened road before him. If he looked up at all, all the usual warmth of his amber eyes was gone, replaced with something dull and faraway. Was that fear?

Was it fear of me? Of what I would think of him now?

Anders' recent revelation of the Grey Warden's curse had left me shaken, as though he had physically hit me. How was someone supposed to react when they were told that the people they love are not only going to die, but that there is absolutely nothing that can be done to save them? I had already lost so much…

But nothing could justify how I had treated Anders last night. Consumed in grief, I had tried to take my anger out on him for something that had been completely out of his control. I had been blaming him for his own death, for being what he is. I hated myself for it.

I had been so angry. It was like the Maker had decided that my home, my father, my brother and my sister were not enough to take from me. He needed to have Anders and Carver too. He needed to bleed me dry and then trample all over my empty husk of a corpse.

I was still angry, but my rage was not for Anders to bear.

The way I had spoken to him had been unforgiveable. I had needed someone to blame and he was going to let me take it all out on him. I would have too, but for Carver's timely intervention. By then though, I had already said enough. I had hurt him.

The trouble with being overcome by emotion is that you lose perspective. What good does it do to dredge up old ghosts, throw bitter accusations at the people you love for things that happened so long ago, when that could mean losing them sooner?

Had I lost Anders? Did he still trust me? When I told him I loved him, did he know that I meant it?

There was more to it than that though; Anders had other demons that haunted him. There was probably more than Justice even. The Wardens and the circle: Anders' life 'before' were topics that Anders would never willingly broach, and when he did it was objectively. There was definitely more to it than I knew. More than I wanted to know.

As I walked, I made sure to drag my weapon across every surface that I passed, scratching through the gritty layer of black grease that infected everything. My sword made a pleasant kind of scrape-clunk, scrape-clunk as it grazed along. When I let it fall to scuff along the dusty floor, it made a gravely dragging noise that I couldn't express through onomatopoeia.

With every little grinding sound, Carver's shoulders visibly twitched. It was the same reaction every time, like pressing a button. Scrape-clunk twitch, scrape-clunk twitch.

But I wasn't just doing this to irritate my brother and afford another excuse to re-sharpen my new weapon. I was looking for a 'seal', something that would hopefully react as obviously as Carver when I touched my key to it.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what the blighted thing would look like. I needed a glorious booming explosion to let me know exactly when I hit the right object. It would herald the great battle with Corypheus and then we could all be on our merry way back home, with a quick stop at the hanged man for drinks and stories of course.

On second thoughts, less story-sharing would probably be better this time.

Stupid darkspawn-Warden-thing; speaking cryptically, making it hard for me not to tune its raspy voice out when it imparts apparently vital information.

We walked into a great circular room, adorned with crested banners on its proud, stone walls; it wasn't much different from the previous chambers that we had traipsed through. What marked this one as something to be noted was the huge, glyph-like podium in the centre of the room, projecting an eerie green light up from it. It was encased by four pillars, each inscribed with different markings.

There were no exits from the room. The only passage, other than the way we had come, was barred by another shimmering barrier of golden light. Standing sentinel on either side of this were two golden gryphon statues, heavily stylized with bold, curving lines. That was where I needed to go.

I turned my gaze back to the circular dais in the middle of the room. The green light rippled up from patterned cracks in the masonry. Looking closer, I recognised the design to be a glyph, I had seen similar ones in my father's old tomes that I had rescued from Ferelden, but they were so detailed that no two looked the same. They were almost more frustrating than the undecipherable Arcanum that was scrawled across page after weathered page of those books, the language of the Tevinters, and completely foreign to me.

This had to be the seal that Larry was talking about. I took a step up onto the raised edge of the platform, the metal of my boots clicking triumphantly on the stone. There was a collective intake of breath as I raised my sword above my shoulders, though I could have imagined that. I paused for dramatics at the apex of my swing, before plunging my blade into the centre, where the light filtered strongest.

In that first instant of contact, it felt like energy was pouring from my fingertips through my weapon and into a great vacuum of power. I felt its pull, but in a split second the void snapped shut. The barrier fell and my heart lifted, even as the key threw me backwards across the room.

A vague shape that I hadn't deigned to acknowledge swelled into form before me. Freedom? No, a pride demon, why not?

Anders was quick to petrify it, Maker I loved him.

Crumbled on the floor where I had fallen, I inhaled and my ribs felt sharp and tight around my lungs. My body was bruised. I made my breathing shallower and faster in an effort to ease the pain of each inspiration.

Then a feeling washed through me, it was like plunging into an icy pool. My vision was blue for a split second and then it was gone as soon as it had come. But it didn't leave me feeling drenched or cold. Instead, I was invigorated, revitalised. Anders' work again. My bruises were insignificant and my breathing was painless. I leapt to my feet and charged back at the demon, chest rising and falling steadily and evenly.

With the hiatus afforded by the demon's temporary entrapment, Carver, Isabella and Varric had unleashed their most powerful attacks in a flurry of quick blades and precision shots. I focused all of my energies on driving my greatsword as hard as I could into the most vulnerable places I could find. Namely, any part of the thing that was softer than the rest. Its skin was like molten rock, but it was fissured. Break the surface and its enervating lifeblood would spill like magma.

I tried lopping off one of its great taloned arms, before realising that these were not essential to its survival in the grand scheme of things. In no time at all, our blades were glowing faintly red, as though each penetration through its fractured flesh was an immersion into a red hot forge.

When the beast's rock prison began crumbling around him, I made to move back to dodge whatever attack it would throw at me, but just as the demon lifted its taloned arms in the beginning of a gesture, Anders acted again, freezing it solid with a winter's grasp. That mage was going to be rewarded sweetly for this later.

I dove back on the offensive, as did Isabella and Carver. Even Varric was at the front with us, firing close range for higher criticality. We lunged and stabbed, it was refreshing to not have to focus on defence; there was no holding back. It all felt very practiced, but at the same time, it was natural and intuitive. Like a dance that we had all rehearsed over and over again until we knew it by heart, but it somehow managed to remain impulsive and exciting.

The ice began to crack as the demon tried to complete its interrupted motion, but I had to make this a perfect execution. _Hawke_ never did anything half-arsed. I leapt, bringing my sword up over my head and crashing it down through the demon's shoulder, into its neck in a deep gash that, in its completion, nearly severed its neck from its shoulders.

Its strange otherworldly blood spilt down my arm in rivulets, the scent was pungent, a mixture of sulphur and saffron.

The demon seemed to balance for a moment before falling, but I knew it was dead, without ever having the opportunity to unleash a single counter attack: beautiful.

Unthinkingly, I turned and bounded over to Anders, scooping my arm around his waist and nuzzling into his neck. He smelt so good, especially after the scent of demonic blood had assaulted my olfactory senses.

Anders smelt like a strange mix of herbs and parchment and sweat, it was natural and earthy, and there was something medicinal in there too. But it was all subtle and it was all Anders. I breathed him in. Like smoke and woodchips, and there was something magic about the way Anders' smelt, like the fade was clinging to him always, it was a biting undertone, a bit like saffron. But I realised I didn't really care to analyse it, I just wanted it. I wanted him.

"You were perfect," I said, nipping at the soft skin behind his collar to accentuate myself.

Had what I said last night caused his demeanour switch? Did he still trust me?

Anders was blushing furiously as he always did when we were in company, pulling away from my bear hug just slightly. The heat in his cheeks and neck were transferred to my skin.

Public displays of affection always had Anders acting coyly, averting his eyes to the floor, but he was smiling. It was a bit like our first kiss, it was gorgeous. I was encouraged. This was the same Anders; although I couldn't envision a type of Anders that I wouldn't be able to love.

Was it not me then? Was it the dreams? They were getting worse for him I knew.

"Brother!" Carver always picked the worst times. I growled low in my throat and planted a kiss slowly on Anders' neck. He trembled under my lips and I smiled against his skin, prolonging the moment.

"Oi, brother! Get over here." Breaking away from Anders, I aimed to make my trudge to the rest of the party stubbornly slow out of spite for the interruption. Upon turning, I realised that the upper body of my trusty dwarf was protruding from under the mass of fallen pride demon. Two stout little arms flailing wildly about, it was almost comical. Carver was trying to pull the demon's great weight up, but he wasn't going to get anywhere on his own.

Whoops.

I broke into a run, call it an apology for my somewhat obstinate attitude just before. Anders jogged along behind me.

Carver rolled his eyes at me when I reached him, and Varric was cursing and mumbling something about my priorities. I tried to make my smile look as apologetic as it could be, unfortunately I don't think it took very well. Isabella was in hysterics, doubled over next to the scene, clutching at her stomach and being decidedly unhelpful.

"Hawke to the rescue!" I declared. Carver's glare was positively icy.

I backtracked, "err, that was a _plural_, kid. I _definitely_ said '_Hawkes_'. 'Hawke_-s_ to the rescue,'" excellent cover, I congratulated myself, adding "You need to stop being so negative, brother," for good measure.

Mine and Carver's familiar affection for one another was an ever-present thing that never did manage to express itself. We had come far too close to having a moment last night, which certainly would have ruined our entire dynamic. I liked things better this way and so did he.

Isabella's gales of laughter renewed with vigour, and she was now on her knees, wiping at her eyes. Anders gave me a look that said 'you liar,' It was definitely followed by a 'good save though, handsome man!'

"Hurry up!" Varric almost wailed, "I'm going to be truncated. I bet my legs already have gangrene! You are going to have to amputate, Anders. Dammit, I don't need any more short jokes!" Anders chuckled. Who knew Varric was a closet hypochondriac?

Together, Carver and I pulled and Varric wriggled free. He pulled himself over to Anders, who gave him a cursory once over, and then conjured some healing light that made quick work of mending his bruised lower half, chuckling to himself all the way.

In all the tumultuous fuss, we let our guard down.

We didn't hear the darkspawn approaching. We didn't see them either. Anders, absorbed in his healing magic, and Carver, laughing along with me and Isabella, their extra senses went unnoticed.

Maybe when the hurlocks crept up behind us, when they were but a few paces away, maybe at that point Carver and Anders had lifted their heads and opened their mouths to shout a desperate warning.

If they did, I hadn't heard them.

I felt _something_. That inkling quality that descends upon you when know something is watching or listening; that feeling that is always right but that you never seem to trust because it is so akin to paranoia.

I turned only to have my twisting body collide with a dagger that was poised behind me.

There wasn't much else that I was focused on after that.

After that moment, all my senses were flooded by only one acute reaction: pain. I was vaguely aware of the darkspawn on every side, surrounding us. Then the battle sounds erupted, though I wasn't sure that anyone had seen me stumble. Maybe they thought it was just a scrape, but the twisting pain punctured through my stomach, burning down every nerve ending, twisting and wrenching.

The fighting around me was raging. I staggered, unable to stab when I should have, I dodged instead, and oh fucking Maker that _hurt_! I tried to put my hand to my stomach to staunch the wound that I knew was there, but the motion was sloppy. My hand grazed against something hard and metal and decidedly not a part of my body, although touching that protruding thing sent renewed pain shooting through my flesh.

I fell to my knees then, the dirt from the ground sticking to my bloody palms as I tried to crawl from the fray. I choked and spasmed.

"Hawke's down! Time to panic!" That's Varric, he has so much faith in me.

Voice pealing desperately over the clash of metal, I heard Anders, "No! Don't be dead, _please_!" His cry was pure anguish and it quaked. Hearing that was agonizing.

Get _up_ Hawke.

I tried to lift my knees under my body but every movement was so excruciating. I collapsed down again and the pain was _intolerable_ now, like a branding iron or blue fire or like the sun burning gas and it was enormous and it was searing and charred. I heard a new scream and I knew it was my own.

My vision blurred. When I managed to wrench my eyes open I was on my side and I didn't know how I had gotten there because I had fallen on my stomach. There was more blood but I could still hear the sounds of daggers and swords, could see and hear the glow and roar of magic.

I could see the knife sticking out of my stomach. It rose and fell with each shuddering, watery inhale and exhale. I could feel it sliding up and down, sawing. Each time it did I felt it anew. But it wasn't watery, It was _bloody_. I could taste it and it was so metallic and salty.

I couldn't look directly at the sword, but I couldn't move my body to look away. I couldn't bear to. It was ever on the periphery, bobbing shallowly up and down like it were in a bathtub, only too fast, too shallow.

The feeling was slippery and then there was the fire: the raging, burning, piercing fire of the sun and my stomach and my excruciating pain.

I smelt wet iron and something greasier.

But above it all is the acrid charcoal and sulphur. These were so strong that they were on my tongue with the salt and metal. I could feel them burning the labyrinth walls of my sinuses. But that wasn't the pain that was bothering me.

My breath hitched and it came out in a rough, spluttering cough that expelled little flecks of blood all over the dirt in front of my face. The jolting movement was ruthless and I knew I was crying. It hurt, and it was an angry, murderous wrath, full of vitriol and rage.

Then Anders' face was above mine, it swam and blurred and faded. His hair had fallen out of its tie and he looked so _worried_. I wanted to reassure him, to reach up and brush that mop of blonde behind his ear. But I was tired, and my arms were weighted down and sinking to the bottom of the cold, cold ocean.

"No, no, no, no, no."

I tried smiling at him, but my mouth was sticky with blood, it was crawling into the cracks of my lips and between my teeth. I didn't open my mouth. The pain had lessened anyway and I realised that I was lying in a slick wetness. The intensity, the burning, explosive sun was setting. It was beyond the horizon now, not gone but strange, detached.

I saw Carver there too, his voice was weirdly warped but determined, "Don't you die on me, not after all this." The noise faded in and out.

The last thing I saw was Anders leaning over me, and it was as though I were looking at him through a scarlet lens. Maybe he was thinking that I was dying or that I was going to be fine, but probably he wasn't. He was probably thinking of how he would save me. I smiled again and then I was gone.


	11. Chapter 11: Anders

**Chapter 11: Anders**

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><p>The feeling gripped me like a vice: fear, anguish, premature loss. It sunk dark tendrils into my memories of him, like a weed, tainting everything with the thought that those events, those sweet moments, were the last we would share.<p>

He was on his knees, crawling and clutching at his stomach. I could barely glimpse his form through the skirmish around me. He was chocking and lurching on the ground. I cried out to him and I might have seen him look up, but the darkspawn were everywhere. They stood between us.

Garrett was down. How could I have let this happen? I wanted desperately to believe it wasn't true, but I was defenceless to my own fears, they seeped in and wracked me to my core.

Let this be a dream. Let this only have happened in the spirit realm, a nightmare, a twisted product of Justice's resentment for the hold Garrett had over me. I wanted, _needed_, this to be a lie.

Maker, please don't let this be real.

Amidst the swirl of denial, grief and failure, I became vaguely aware that the darkspawn I had been fighting lay dead in a circle around me, and then that my feet had carried me in quick, shuffling steps frantically over to Garrett's side.

I crumpled down on my knees next to him. His eyes already had that glazed look about them. His skin was waxy and pale. He had fallen on his stomach, pushing the longsword deeper into his abdomen. Now his hand was fisted next to the sword, still penetrating from his wound.

How could that have made it through his armour? Not a darkspawn blade.

Garrett had fallen into blessed unconsciousness; reprieve from the pain of his body. Against my better judgement, I wrenched the blade from his armour. Its metal was bloodless and it left his body with a strange hissing noise that I overlooked in the wake of my task.

"Carver," he blinked, "I need to see the wound! Help me get his armour off." But he was frozen, staring at Garrett's broken body with wide, hopeless eyes. The colour had bled from his face and he was nearing the pallor of his brother who was still bleeding out on the ground before us. He didn't move. "Now, Carver!"

Carver jolted back to life suddenly and remarkably, and with his eyes locked onto mine, sweat pearling on his brow, he nodded and began fumbling with the clasps on Garrett's breastplate, Varric worked dutifully on the rest of the armour ties.

I pulled off Garrett's gauntlet and let it clatter roughly to the tainted stone floor. What were material objects when the one bright light in my life was fading and spluttering before me? His calloused hands were unnaturally pale next to mine; usually so tan, rough yet careful. Pressing my fingers into the base of his wrist, I groped for a pulse. I found the radial artery, but its pressure was thready; the lapping blood rushing through the vessel. Not enough. It was a weak fluttering below his diaphoretic skin.

Its presence was reassuring though. A _good_ sign. He's still _fine_. Not _so much_ blood loss. Peripheral perfusion is still adequate.

Unconsciously, I had slipped into thinking in terminology. I knew that if I for a moment began to think of Garrett as the man that I loved, that this was possibly the last moment I would have with him, I would freeze up in a useless state of desperation and suffering.

The breastplate clanged to the floor, its underside stained a coppery red. The resounding noise broke my reverie, startling me with the knowledge that now was the time to save him, now was the only chance I had.

Isabella pushed a mana draught into the palm of my hand and I took it gratefully, pulling the vial's bitter contents down my throat.

Garrett's gaping red wound glared up at me. Bleeding anew since I had wrenched the sword out, disrupting the beginnings of his body's repairal processes. Tiny molecules binding together into clots, jerked apart by the friction. Blood pooled around him and beneath him, a biting, metallic smell.

I set to work. If there was one thing I was good at, it was the healing arts. How could I bring myself to fail in this, now when it mattered more than ever? I could not. I would not. This is what I knew.

Garrett's lips were painted red with his own blood. Not enough to aspirate yet. Hopefully.

"Carver, hold his head to the side," I took his fumbling hands and rearranged them carefully around my lover's head. Just far enough to the side so he wouldn't breathe in and choke on his own blood, just straight enough to keep his airway clear.

I turned back to survey his abdomen. It was distended and inflamed. All that blood that he had lost, it pooled under the skin. His peritoneum was like a bag of viscous fluid, hard to the touch.

There was so much damage, the edges of the wound looked as though they had been burned, matching the tell-tale charcoal smell of burning tissue that hung in the air. It clung to my nares, penetrating the hollow branching pattern of my sinuses. This odd burning had served to partially cauterize much of the damage, but it also meant it would be harder to repair. There would be an ugly scar.

I had my pack open, bandages and salves spilled out onto the dirt. I rummaged around for a combine, which I pressed firmly to the wound.

Garrett's body squirmed under me but I held him in place with my thin hands. He was usually so much stronger than me, but his remonstrations now were feeble, keeping him still took so little effort. My fingers trembled.

I cursed myself for not having brought any supplementary equipment, something to restore that lost blood that was staining my knees a dark crimson as I knelt beside him. I settled for putting my palm over his head, and pushing magic into his hypothalamus, demanding what his body needed. I could almost feel the chemical reactions occurring; breaking down and building up molecules, burning food and oxygen. That little part of Garrett's brain heard me, releasing an arsenal of chemicals into his waning bloodstream; a myriad of neurotransmitters and hormones telling his heart to keep pumping, his breath to quicken, his kidneys to hold onto as much water as they could. Keep that blood pressure stable.

I moved my healing hands over his abdomen, feeling for damage. Praying to The Maker and Andraste and The Creators and The Ancestors, praying to whoever would listen: please don't let the damage be too great. Please let me fix this.

The puncture traversed through his liver and stomach, thankfully missing his kidneys and pancreas. Good. This was _good_, or better than it might have been, at least.

I started work on his liver; he was losing the most blood from those delicate tissues. Blood. Blood, and lymph, and bile, spurting hot and persistent from that little, lacerating hole in his liver. Such a heavy, dominant organ. These fluids were filling his body in a mixture of congealed liquids that swelled his abdomen.

Right now, Garrett was a sinking ship, with a tiny puncture leaking water in through the hull. I could keep bucketing water out to keep him afloat, but eventually he would go under. I needed to fix the leak.

I mumbled incantations under my breath, over and over, knitting his liver back together. Tugging the air above his body with absurd little tweaking gestures that were reflected on the inside, accomplishing a week's work in little under a minute. The hole was plugged and mended, the bleeding staunched.

Garrett made an ugly gurgling sound deep in his throat and his body jolted up in an unconscious spasm. His chin flopped down on his chest. Blood and spit ran in hot rivulets down the side of his face and down and onto his brother's loyal hand, still holding his head as I had instructed.

I danced my fingers over his chest and throat in a sweeping motion, reaching tendrils of magic into his oesophagus, guiding the misplaced blood up and out of his throat so he could breathe again. I pulled it through his body and then through the air in a stream, until it joined the pool around him.

Time stopped for a moment as I watched him. Waiting with my hand on his chest, my cheek next to his mouth; waiting for that fateful rise and fall that I so desperately needed. It came, belated and shallow, but present. My hand rose with him, I felt the warmth of his life flutter against my cheek.

Still breathing, good. This was _good_. I had to remind myself constantly. These were _good _signs. They were _promising_. He would live.

I was drained, but I pushed myself further, downing potion after potion to keep my mana stores from depletion. The lyrium left my head feeling light and my stomach queasy, but I kept on. Cleansing, clotting, repairing. He would live. He had to live. The wound in his stomach closed next, he wouldn't be able to eat properly for a while, lest it infect. But he would live.

The blood and bile were still there, stagnating in his peritoneal cavity, I took everything that was usable and forced it to diffuse back into his vessels.

I pulled at the air above his diaphragm in what would have looked like a ridiculous gesture to an onlooker. Gradually, the fluids, already sticky and thick, drifted up and out of the still open puncture wound. I kept pulling until the distension had softened and his abdomen returned to a relatively normal size, bar the inevitable swelling. I held it in the air in a blue glow between my fingers, a floating globule of semi-clotted fluids held adrift in a flow of magical energy. I let it fall to the floor with the rest.

At least he would live.

With what felt like the last of my energies, I made to close the wound, but my hands shook and it was a messy, crooked zipper-line that ran right under his ribs and down. The repair work was thin and poor, less than he deserved, but it was all I could manage right now. More lyrium and I was likely to faint. I settled for smearing a salve over the skin, from here Isabella took over, sponging a wet rag over Garrett's crimson stained skin and wrapping his body in bandages. I fell back onto my haunches with a noisy exhalation, my shoulders dropped. My work was done.

Now I was burnt out on lyrium and adrenaline. I wanted nothing more than to collapse atop him and just hold him and have him hold me back. My whole body quaked, and Varric's grasped my shoulder reassuringly. It was all I could do to keep tears from welling in my eyes. I settled instead for holding Garrett's cold hand in my own, feeling that delicate pulse wavering under the skin. Feeling it flutter… and fade.

It took me longer than it should have to grasp what that meant, what was happening. Garrett was dying. I jolted forward, groping his neck for his carotid artery. I felt nothing. Already deep in shock, his tired muscles had given up, his compensatory mechanisms had failed.

In a last ditch effort, I pushed my magic into his chest and seized the muscles of his heart, forced them to keep moving. I beat the muscle for him, struggling to keep the tempo steady and strong, pushing more and more of myself into this because it was all that I had. Constrict for ejection, relax to fill those muscled chambers. Constrict, relax, pause. Constrict, relax, pause.

A flask was pushed to my lips and I drank, feeling my head spin. I was focused so intently on this one task that I didn't notice my own body's parasympathetic cues failing. His heartbeat was mine and I strained to keep it pounding onward.

My quivering fingertips were pushed against his sternum, against his throbbing heart. I felt my skin grow colder as warmth returned to his limp form. I felt his heartbeat take my rhythm and I supported it as it marched on.

My world was turning dark around the edges, circling and pushing inward. As it closed in on me, I thought I saw Garrett's eyelids flutter. The beat strengthened; that inexhaustible strength returning. And then the blackness devoured me.*****

…

I awoke several hours later, sticky with sweat, my head spinning and throbbing from the excess lyrium. The feeling was akin to a hangover.

Strikingly, Garrett's collapse rushed back at me in a powerfully vivid montage of memory. I sat upright, and blood rushed from my head, darkening my vision. I nearly slipped back out of consciousness but I held on to one thought: was he okay? This I needed to know, I clung to my body even as my head danced frantic spirals.

"Whoa, Blondie! Take it easy! Hey Rivaini, he's awake!"

I swayed, where I sat, letting my body get accustomed to being upright again. I ran shaky fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my eyes, taking a greedy gulp of air. Someone had taken off my coat and laid me on a bedroll by a softly flickering fire.

Gradually, blurred shapes swam into reality. The faces of Varric and Isabella hovered ethereally before me, but there was only one person on my mind.

"Where is he?" I choked.

"He's fine, Anders." Isabella smiled sympathetically at me and there was no trace of a lie in her eyes or on her lips. I let myself relax minutely, but I needed to know for sure. I needed to see and feel him with my own eyes and hands.

"Please. I need to."

"There's really no point, Blondie. He's still sleeping," Varric opened his mouth to continue, but any further placating words that he thought to offer died on his lips. There must have been something in the look that I gave him that said there was no use in denying me this. He knew that I was not going to let it go, "Alright then, come on."

With Varric on one side and Isabella on the other, we managed to heave me to my uneasy feet. My head span again and I leant heavily on them for support.

When the objects around me had all solidified and returned to their original quantities and colours, I struggled forward. Varric and Isabella guided me around the fire to Garrett's sleeping form, only a few paces from where I had been. Our companions had moved us both from the mess of dirt and blood, and had constructed a feeble fire that sputtered just enough warmth and light for our comfort.

Garrett was a bundle of blankets with a tuft of black, ruffled hair poking from the top. He snored noisily and healthily. Once again, I fell to his side and onto my knees. Carver sat across from me and nodded a wordless thanks, he vocalised a reassurance instead, "He's fine."

Apparently none of us were capable of anything more than these shortly worded assurances at the moment. I myself could do no more than swallow loudly and nod in return.

"Has he woken yet?"

"Only to drink some poultice. Then he fell asleep again."

"Good… that's good."

Placing my palm on his sweaty forehead, warm now, I muttered a gentle spell that pulled him deeper into what I hoped was a peaceful, dreamless ocean of sleep. He deserved it. The blue glow enveloped my hand and Garrett's snoring gained in volume and depth. In his hypothalamus, I checked his vital signs and his blood biomarkers. No signs of myocardial infarction, no tissue death. Good, perfect. He was so strong.

I felt weak, like my mana was barely a shallow pool, holding scarcely enough to fuel my spell. It was frustrating. This was the after effects of lyrium overdose. I was still dizzy from it.

Under his mountain of blankets, someone had removed the rest of Garrett's armour and had dressed him in a clean cotton shirt. It amazed me that any of us had thought to bring a spare set of clothes, let alone someone with Garrett's level of forethought. I didn't recognise the shirt though, which told me it must belong to his brother. That was more fitting, the Grey Wardens taught you to be prepared for anything and everything.

I pulled the shirt up, exposing the flat plane of his stomach, wrapped tightly with gauze and bandages. With composed fingers now, I loosened his wrappings and inspected the scar. It was thin and ugly, twisting in a deep divot across his otherwise unblemished skin. It pulled in and down in a ragged mass of taught, red, fibrous tissue. I put more magic behind my fingers and felt for infection, for taint. I found nothing. The effort set my hands to trembling again and I closed my eyes against the urge to sleep. I moved my hand back over the scar and made to help the healing quicken, but Carver closed his hand around my wrist in a firm grip and wrenched my arm away from his brother.

"You've done enough, Anders."

My stream of magic slackened and died above his stomach. Had I done enough, though? Could I ever do enough? Garrett was worth everything I could offer him and so much more. He didn't deserve this scar that I had left him with. I let my finger trail along its curve; this failing of mine. Just my finger, without the healing power of magic behind it; just my tired hands and this blemish that I couldn't fix no matter how hard I might try.

It was only then that I finally cried. I couldn't stop myself. It was a complete and utter release. My body folded down onto Garrett's softly rising chest, heavy with sleep. Then I was lost, cradled in the dark oblivion of his body, quiet and complete and free.

I heaved myself up into my shoulders and then I jerked down, down, down. A series of sobbing drops. When I finally pulled myself up and away from Garrett's body, still peaceful in soft sleep, his shirt was a wet impression of my tears. You could only just make out the mask of my face in the dark, wet pattern.

I looked up at Carver and he was looking away, giving me my privacy, my moment of weakness. I wiped at my face to gain a modicum of respectability when I saw Carver's eyes were shining too. Tiny streams of saltwater reflected down his cheeks. I pretended not to notice.

Soon after, I fell into a restless sleep by Garrett's side, arms wrapped tightly around him, keeping him warm in a cocoon of limbs and blankets. So tight that there would be no way I wouldn't feel it if he woke in the night, or if his strong heart gave out once again. Isabella watched dutifully over us that night, more mindful of Garrett's continued breath than the darkspawn that surely lurked in the depths. As I dozed with one foot in the fade and the other just clinging to the mortal realm, I sensed nothing lying in wait for us, and I was quietly confident that Garrett would be fine. It was this thought more than any that finally let me rest.

* * *

><p><strong><em>*Please presume that this is like mainstream television, and people that have heart failure are completely fine in the next scene. I just didn't have the patience for it. Plus, EMTs don't understand long term treatment. <em>**


	12. Chapter 12: Hawke

**Chapter 12: Hawke**

* * *

><p>For a while, all I knew was blackness. I couldn't recall its arrival, or how I had managed to drown myself in it, just that it was all that I had.<p>

For periods, in a cruel addition, I had the pain as well. The blackness rose and fell over this feeling like the tides, but the pain was always underneath, waiting to resurface. Sometimes, when the blackness was thinnest, I grasped at vague hazy sounds.

Was I making progress?

I wanted those sounds, searched for them in my ocean of darkness that eased in and out, rising up to engulf me, and then ebbing back to make way for the pain, just enough to convince me that maybe that would be it, that I had withstood the worst, but then it would creep up again, in a suffocating wave.

I felt like I had been asleep in this sea for eons.

The tides rose and fell. I realized that when the pain was at its peak was the point at which I was closest to consciousness, the rest was a haze of comfort and ignorance. I didn't know which I preferred, but I was leaning towards pain and reality.

I caught snippets of conversation, vague blurs of my friends. There was always someone there, and then I would be engulfed again.

I drifted.

Seasons change, the ebb and flow lessened. That steady surge was often shallow, and when it was, it wasn't so unbearable. The pain eroded, leaving me with a semblance of awareness. I was me again, not just a being of pain and blackness. I grasped for memories of how I had found my way here, but every time I got close they evaded me, like I was trying to collect water in a sieve. But now I had a foothold, and with this foothold, I fought.

…

I resurfaced and it wasn't with a scream.

My pulse was throbbing in my ears like a drumbeat, each thump a hammer pounding at my temples. There was rustle of clothing and bodies like a flock of startled birds, mingled with hushed whispers.

Was I awake? Had I woken at all?

And then a feminine voice rose above the murmur; it was tinted with apprehension, "Shouldn't he be awake by now?" Isabella. Her voice hurt me physically; it pushed at my skull, adding strength to that pounding, metaphorical hammer.

Having been in the dark for so long, I pressed my eyes shut against the sound and the brightness, but the back of my eyelids was a dull red where light filtered through the thin tissue, illuminating all those tiny capillaries. The color of blood and darkness.

"I have to admit, I almost had myself convinced the man was invincible." Varric's stories are, admittedly, very convincing. And his voice was less shrill, soothing even.

"He's only a man." That derisive tone and its accompanying snort could only have been Carver's. He could pretend all he liked that he didn't care, but I had heard the dread in his cry when I had fallen.

My memories: the water, that elusive substance that fell through my sieve? Well, it was like they had kicked that puddle up into my face and it had hit me with wet recognition: I had been stabbed. Was this the taint then? Was I a ghoul? No, I don't hear anything calling. It had burnt, oh but how it had seared and consumed me.

I remembered fighting and giving up. The next thing was that intrusive feeling, like someone else was in control, I remembered soft lips clamped on my mouth, pushing his breath into me. I remembered being saved, gasping and chocking to life, and then there was the blackness. Maybe I was imagining all of those things.

"Shh all of you!" Anders' hushed whisper, now that was soothing, even moreso was his hand, stroking just above the crook of my elbow. I focused on that. "He needs to rest. You'll wake him."

I became aware of his other hand being pressed to my forehead and the cool trickle of magic beginning to seep into my thoughts, willing me to sleep. But I kept my focus on his other hand instead, the gentle swirl of his thumb on my skin. If I focused hard enough, I reckoned I could feel the tiny ridges and valleys that curled on the surface of his fingertips. I used this to cling to consciousness, even as the spell pulled me down into my ocean of darkness. I didn't want to leave. I was so close to them now.

How long had I been in this cataleptic state?

"Lazy sot's been asleep all damn day." It was like Carver had read my mind. Surely it had been more than one day?

Anders let the statement hover in the air for a long moment before responding, and when he did, his words were sad and full of guilt. "He lost a lot of blood."

"Ahm-alright," I rattled, and was mildly taken aback at how hard talking was at the moment. My throat was smarting from the motion, and my mouth felt so dry. The words came out slurred and raspy, making the validity of my statement largely unconvincing. I whet my split lips to try again, but the hush that had descended around me was unsettling.

I cracked my gummy eyes open just enough to see four pairs of eyes staring down at me with bated breath. I pressed my eyes shut against them all.

"Love?" Anders' whisper wouldn't have been audible if it weren't for the intensity of the silence that pressed down upon me now.

"Mm?" I decided that sticking to ambiguous consonant sounds would be the most convincing of my wellbeing. It hurt less too.

"Go back to sleep." His fingers were at my forehead again. Cool and comforting and tiring. They pulled me up from my broken body and told me to take refuge in my subconscious.

His lips brushed against my brow as I let myself fall into a restful sleep.

…

Next I resurfaced, my pain was a dull, unmasked ache. My body was heavy with weariness but I heaved myself up onto my elbows.

Anders slumbered softly beside me. He was such a graceful sleeper. But I had little time to appreciate his form, as I rose a pinching stab of pain punctured my stomach again and I whined. I fell back down with a quiet gasp, cautious not to disturb him.

Peaceful sleep like this was so rare for Anders. Now that I paused to think about it, he had volunteered for watch every night that we had been in this foul place. Knowing Anders, he probably hadn't been sleeping at all recently; too busy worrying about and caring for my useless self.

This wasn't unusual. Years of running from Templars, followed by his time in the Wardens had conditioned him to function well while sleep deprived. I had seen the man go for days without sleep, working fervently on his manifesto, trafficking mages from the Gallows, selflessly healing the subjugated, all the while his reflexes never dulled, he endured as Anders always has done.

Maybe it was partly due to the erratic sleep schedule that he assumed as a hunted apostate or the unmeasurable days and nights that he endured in solitary confinement, neither of which he was eager to talk about. Maybe it was to avoid the night terrors, maybe he found it impossible with the thickness of the taint down here, maybe he felt he was the only one equipped to guard us, or maybe it was justice sustaining him with energy from the fade? It might have something to do with that legendary Grey Warden stamina that I like so much. Or it could just be Anders, but who was he if not the product of all of his experiences, the good and the bad?

Usually, a week without sleeping was every third one for Anders, so I let him have his rest.

My fingers weren't quite as coordinated as I should have liked them to be, but still I managed to shrug off my mountain of overprotectively draped blankets and fumble my shirt up to touch my skin. It was warm. Warm and strangely smooth where it slipped in a deep divot under my ribs. I ran my hand across it, feeling the change in surface, and I was startled when I felt nothing. Just a small circle had no sensation whatsoever. Somewhere in all that commotion I had lost a nerve. I couldn't even notice it unless I put my hand on it. It was like a blind spot. My brain had no sensation there, so it was just filling in for what it knew was supposed to be. Absurd. I couldn't stop fingering that little spot, feeling nothing on one end.

Excellent, there is at least one place that I won't have to worry about hurting when I attempt my inevitable struggle to my feet.

I felt like I had aged decades, every joint and bone that I possessed right down to the carpels ached completely as I moved to stand. The motion was not graceful, and was impossible without making far more embarrassing grunts of pain than I am proud to admit.

Now that I was standing precariously upright, I surveyed my body's limitations, starting with each limb. It was exactly as bad as I had thought, the degree of rotation was significantly lessened everywhere, and nothing would straighten out as it used to. I realized that I was standing scrunched up, holding my arms and legs uncertainly close to my body.

I thought at that moment how similar I must look to Larias, and stifled a silent chuckle that turned into a pitiful whine as I felt my whole body moving and pulling around my wound.

Note to self: no laughter. This would be hard for me; I was so irresistibly funny. I would definitely need to use all the willpower I possessed.

It was odd that I had been standing this long without being swooped upon protectively, or scolded and forced to go back to sleep. I felt like an unsupervised toddler, fully aware that he was bound to hurt himself, but undeterred from his adventure nonetheless.

Now on my feet, and not completely sure of where I was going or whether I would make it or not, I took the liberty of observing our camp. My eyes fell lovingly onto my key. The weapon was leaning casually not a few feet from where I had slept, tempting me. I was not used to being so completely useless for so long. I felt restless and wanted desperately to pick up that glorious weapon and just swing it around for a bit.

I hobbled carefully over to it. It was accompanied by an unlikely companion, a wicked looking dagger that glinted so brightly in the dim light. It outshone my under-polished greatsword completely.

It was curved maliciously and hooked backwards for what I was sure would have been a painful withdrawal from whoevers unlucky flesh it managed to pierce. It would have looked great on Isabella.

"Nasty little blighter isn't it?" I started, cursing myself for jumping as the motion once again pulled at my wound. Speak of the devil: Isabella had sidled up stealthily behind me. She stood looking over my shoulder, her eyes having followed the path of my own to the two blades, "beautiful though. Not their usual choice in weapon. Much classier"

"Where'd we get it?" She let out a peal of laughter.

"Oh sorry, sweet thing. I forgot you didn't know yet. "She," dramatic pause, "is the beauty that vanquished the mighty Hawke!" Isabella made an elaborate, bowing gesture at the dagger. I glared pointedly at it, painful withdrawal indeed. She crouched and retrieved the blade and I supressed a tinge of jealously at how easy that movement was for her. The dagger was light and easy in her nimble hands.

"Actually, you were damn lucky that it wasn't a regular darkspawn blade that got you. Watch this." With that, she took the sharp point of the dagger and carefully nicked the end of her finger, letting a single, careful drop of blood leave her and fall onto the surface of the blade. On contact, it made a loud sizzling noise, and within seconds, the crimson droplet had completely evaporated. The blade was pristine again and it glinted menacingly at me.

"See? No taint!" She smiled at me, holding the dagger lovingly in the air in front of her, "It gave poor Anders a hard time trying to leave you with a neat scar. This girl did some serious tissue damage I hear."

I cringed. I didn't like the thing, but Isabella clearly did. "So, are you going to keeping it or what?"

She turned to look at me, ecstasy lighting up her features "Oh, can I?" It sounded like she was actually asking my permission. I fought down a laugh, successfully avoiding another painful spasm.

"Of course, I'm not going to pretend it's not going to do a fine job at killing your enemies. Just keep it away from my body, alright?"

"Oh, thanks Hawke!" She threw herself on me without warning and I buckled under her weight, letting another embarrassing whimper of pain escape me. At that, she leapt back off of me. "Oh shit, I'm sorry. I completely forgot."

"Yeah, alright." I said, struggling to maintain my tough facade.

"You should probably go back to bed. Anders told me not to let you walk around."

I couldn't argue with her. Just the familiar weight of gravity pulling on my body made me feel like I was carrying an extra hundred kilos under each arm. Standing here, I realized, I was sagging significantly into Isabella, unconsciously letting her support me.

"Yeah, alright."

Together, we shuffled back to the mattress, again tip-toeing around Anders' precarious sleep. He was muttering and moaning softly as Isabella settled me down next to him. She forced me to down another health poultice before letting me close my eyes. I hadn't realized just how tired I was. Carefully, I let myself come to rest along Anders' body, fitting myself into his familiar shape. Lock and key.

Together, we slept.


	13. Chapter 13: Anders

**Chapter 13: Anders**

* * *

><p>On this evening, or what I presumed to be the evening, as it was becoming increasingly difficult to spot the subtle fluctuations between night and day, we sat around a small, foul, fire, compiled of anything and everything that fit the general criteria of 'dry' and 'flammable'. It was steadily churning out acrid, bitter smoke, which hovered and stagnated in the turbid air around our group.<p>

Somewhat like the humming song that hovered on the edge of my brain. Like the feeling of restlessness and inaction that had been festering amongst us for the past few days. These things swirled and idled around us.

We wanted to be moving.

The location didn't help at all. Three days of not being able to press forward were three more days spent in the blighted Deep Roads. It was always the same, all taint and rock and taint and darkspawn and more insufferable taint that spider-webbed in sick, soft growths across everything in its path.

The only anomaly was the absurd dais that sat proudly in the centre of our vast stone walled room. Its four pillars continuously leaked an eerie blue energy. It twisted and pulled away from the pillars and into the surrounding air, and then, with nowhere else to go, was reabsorbed back into the dais, stuck in its eternal limbo.

Garrett wanted to examine it.

I wanted to leave it alone.

This was based on sound experiential evidence: the last time he had touched it, it had released a pride demon, and so followed a series of events that cumulated in the near-death of the most important person in my life.

The humming sound throbbed at my peripheries, blanketing my thoughts.

So we were sitting on our hands, and I was alone in my mind again, waiting for Garrett to be well enough to go on. A proposal that he vehemently opposed, Maker forbid anyone think the mighty Hawke weak.

Naturally, he thought this was his fault, that he was to blame for getting himself hurt or that he was too weak to not have recovered by now. I felt like maybe I should say something to him about it. That it isn't his fault that he got injured, that I let it get so bad before I managed to bring him back. I will never be able to put that one in the 'win' column because I never should have let him reach that point to begin with. I should have felt their approach; I should have been there sooner.

All his self-accusations were ridiculous of course, but I couldn't tell him that. Even if I wanted to absolve him of it, I knew it wouldn't change anything in his mind. That is the nature of guilt, I am no stranger to it. I don't know what I would do if someone tried to convince me that none of the selfish mistakes I have made over my lifetime were not my fault. I know in my heart that they were my choices and guilt is the small price that I pay for my sins. The rest has always been paid by others.

Like my own pulse. The song hummed, indiscernible and foreign.

I think it irritated Garrett more than anything that he couldn't be Hawke. He had to play beneath his best. He couldn't pretend to be immortal when simple tasks were mountainous to him now.

I could still see it, even if he couldn't. His injuries had healed but the pain was still there. It was obvious in the careful way that he held himself, the way he tried to hide his grimace when he moved too sharply or quickly, the way he stood and walked so cautiously. Every movement of his was a calculated trial; he was testing his body's limitations, not wanting to push it too far. He wasn't stupid.

The beautiful symphony swelled, alluring and terrifying and caustic all at once.

Still, I knew that if it came to a fight, he wouldn't feel any of that pain. It would be obscured through the cloud of adrenaline that came with the thrill of survival. He had defeated the Arishok with two broken ribs and a fractured ulna, after all.

Or he wouldn't feel any pain until afterwards at least, when the adrenaline cloud lifted, as it inevitably must. He would become dependent again, and each time the aftermath of his fight will become harder. He will push himself to breaking point if he gets his way, which is why he isn't getting his way this time.

Garrett fidgeted, sharpening his greatsword for the third time in two hours. He should be resting, but he keeps getting up to pace around with that rigid, forced posture. It must have been tiresome to keep up his charade, especially when I could see right through it.

The humming undertone that accompanied my internal soliloquy spiked up into the forefront of my mind now. It was the song, the one that had followed me from the Fade. It was always there, straining to get into my head, a strange, distant chorus. It was Corypheus' song. It hid in the shadows and the silence, calling to me, always waiting until I'm alone with my thoughts until it creeps in again and fills me up with fear and longing.

I am finding it harder and harder to be alone.

Garrett's voice broke into my reverie, tearing me away from the song. The way he looked at me through the harsh cloud of smoke, it was almost as though he had been trying to talk to me for a while now.

"Can you hear that?" He repeated. As he did he cocked his head at a slight angle, listening intently to the darkness.

All I could hear was the music, and I didn't want to give it my attention.

What was he hearing underneath all that sound? Or could it be the same thing? Could this be something that we had all been hearing? Not a product of the twisted, patchwork person that I am, but an effect of this place and nothing else? Maybe I'm not as crazy as I thought I was? Maybe I haven't been alone in all this? My heart lifted with hope and palpable relief. "Is it the song?" I asked him.

He looked at me, confusion writ across his face, "No. What song?" Dread clenched in my stomach. He twisted around suddenly, "They're all around us, murmuring. Can't you hear that?"

This time I really listened, tentatively at first. I tried to focus on the sound of blackness and quiet that lay beneath. With my ear tilted to the shadows, I thought I heard it. It was a muffled, melodic, deceptive, kind-of whisper. I tried to examine the sound more closely, dissecting it for undertones of the kind that Garrett had described.

The song swelled and flooded back into my head, pounding and tearing away at my brain with the foothold that I had given it. It was exactly the same as it had been all along but louder now, both terrible and beautiful, a compelling symphony of dread and awful yearning. I closed my eyes and my mind against it, and it receded again into a captivating hum, one that I didn't dare acknowledge or receive again. There was nothing else out there for me.

Varric shuddered next to me, "Yeah Hawke, I heard it too."

"There are things out there. I can see them." Isabella's sharp eyes had never been wrong before.

They still couldn't hear it, and I couldn't hear whatever this new sound was because the calling song had infiltrated so far into my head that it had dulled all my other senses. I struggled enough trying to listen to my companions when they spoke to me, there was no way I could separate this. I felt detached, isolated.

I squinted into the gloom, further obscured by the toxic smoke from our fire. It stung my eyes.

And then I saw them. Out in the darkness, hiding in plain sight amidst the rock formations, the exact same colour as their slippery, mottled skin. The deep stalkers: familiar serpentine creatures with long, worm-like heads and circles of razor sharp teeth. They conferred around us, calling to one another, gathering in numbers, waiting for one of us to stray far enough from the group to be picked off easily.

"Tezpadam: the Deep Stalker" Varric enlightened us. "They're scavengers so they'll go for the weakest. Hawke, don't stray." He said it in jest, but I wasn't sure if Garrett would take it lightly.

We had been stationary for too long.

"It's not just them." Carver looked haunted, "We're being followed. It's that Larius. He's been watching us." He turned to me questioningly, "Can you feel it?"

I nodded, lying. I hadn't touched my Warden senses for days now. I couldn't stand to. It seemed to make everything worse, strengthening the song. I _had_ been feeling that unsettling sensation of being watched but I had chosen to ignore it; I was having a hard time trusting any of my senses anymore. "Why would he be following us, though?"

"To offer more invaluable guidance, perhaps?" Varric harrumphed his disapproval and adopted a raspy, imitative tone of voice. "_'Touch the key to the Seals'_ that was perhaps the worst advice ever." Obviously, he still hadn't forgiven Larius for his being near-crushed by the pride demon. I stifled a chuckle at the picture that formed in my mind. It was a vivid memory of Varric's legs flailing from beneath the fallen demon.

"Hey, the guy was only trying to help." Garrett's face lit up with an obvious and ill-advised idea, "Maybe we should try again!"

He stood, carefully. Key in hands.

"Maybe we shouldn't" I said and pulled him by the arm back to sitting beside me. I kept his hand in mine.

Garrett looked at me with his sad eyes, holding his body unnaturally straight, his weapon unusually high, like he was trying to prove himself to me. Don't you believe in me? Those gestures asked. Oh Love, how untrue that is. I just don't want you to hurt.

"Wait" All eyes swiveled to Carver. "He's coming closer."

Sure enough, a shrouded figure hobbled out of the darkness, revealing himself as the blue light from the dais, and that from our toxic fire, fell across his crippled features. His gait was slow and labored; it was the same crippled shuffle that I remembered from our last encounter. Every time I saw Larius, I was forced to mentally compare myself to him. How long until I started to deteriorate, or was it already beginning? Is that what this feeling was? Would my hair fall out like that? Would my spirit be that muted?

I felt like I had all those years ago as an apprentice in the Circle tower, watching the Tranquil, shuddering to think how easy it would be for the Templars to force that upon me. It isn't living, they are empty husks of the people they used to be, slaves to the institution.

It was all in the eyes, look deep enough and you can see emotion and life in even the hardest eyes. Look in the Tranquil's eyes and you see emptiness. Look in Larius' eyes and you see a haunted deadness. Larius, at least, seemed to have his autonomy.

Unless he is doing the bidding of Corypheus, just like the Carta.

Hawke met him excitedly, gesturing to the dais, "Let me guess, the first Seal?"

"Two thousand years, the magic holds, never broken." Larius too, approached the dais, and the look that he gave to the swirling blue energy was almost one of reverence, "Give it the key. Let it take the magic back to itself. Absorb it. All who came before."

Hawke shot a scornful look at me, an 'I told you so' kind of expression. Then he bounded up the platform, masking a wince with every exaggeratedly confident step.

"Wait!" Someone said, and Garrett paused with his foot hovering on the edge of the last step, waiting. He was looking at me expectantly. Everyone's eyes, even Larius' strange cloudy ones, were on me. Oh. My mouth had spoken reflexively without the guidance of my brain.

I had no idea what I was going to say to him, but now that I had started I couldn't say nothing, especially when I had betrayed my true feelings.  
>"Please, don't do this Garrett." He opened his mouth, a frown pinching his brow, but I knew what he was going to say already, so I cut him off "You don't need to prove yourself. We have no idea what that thing is going to do. It might be absolutely nothing but I just don't want you to risk it. Just, please..."<p>

Hawke was still paused there in his hesitation. He wanted more than anything to take that last step. Climb up onto the dais and just see what would happen. But maybe he wouldn't, if not for him, then for me. Indecision flitted across his face.

"I'll do it," another voice rung out. It was Carver, "I'm a Hawke too, in case you had all forgotten." He rolled his eyes with no small amount of disdain. The younger sibling, forever obscured in the vast shadow cast by his brother.

"Excellent!" Varric exclaimed, and the tone that he had piled onto his voice made it evident to everyone that he was trying to convince us that he hadn't forgotten Carver. "All right Junior, get up there."

I looked back to Garrett. _Please_. He had this sullen look about him, but he couldn't argue the point. Disagreeing now would only make him look petty and he knew it. He frowned at his boots.

Carver looked hesitantly at his brother as he walked up the steps to the dais. His hands faltered as he held them outstretched to receive the greatsword. It was all very ceremonious. They stood there awkwardly for a minute, Carver, trying very hard to look unfazed, and Garrett, trying equally hard to look gracious. He failed dismally at hiding his aversion to this transferal of responsibility.

"Don't screw this up." He said, only half-joking, before placing the key reverently into his brother's hands.

When Carver took that last step on to the dais, I felt the key thrum to life. It resonated a palpable energy into the atmosphere. The orbs on each of the four pillars brightened in their intensity. That swirling blue magic paused and waited.

When the two archaic magics connected, the dais came to life, like lock and key. Golden light came up from beneath, throwing an eerie light on the underside of Carver's pale features. One of the pillars grew brighter than the others, teeming with power that was visible now in a brilliant radiance that emanated from it. I felt it from across the room, the entire chamber thrummed with negative energy. Like something had been pulled from the room. The tiny hairs on my neck and arms were standing at attention.

This potential shook the room as it shot suddenly outward in a stream of shuddering electricity, connecting with the key held firmly by Carver's unwavering grasp. It too, was glowing with this new power, struggling to absorb its energy. It was as though that connection hung there for a long moment, building its charge before exploding in a blinding light. My whole body was hurled backwards with the burst of force. It threw me against the stone wall, all the hardness colliding with the angles of my body, crashing my staff uncomfortably between my shoulder blades. I cried out in momentary shock and pain.

And then the light was pulled back inward, absorbed suddenly into the key.

I had lost sight of everyone and I tried desperately to blink the vestiges of brightness from my eyes. But all the visibility that this afforded me was short lived; the rubble and dust that was strewn about the room, a remnant of decades and maybe centuries of accumulated history and deterioration, was lifted into the air, where it hung in thick shrouds of swirling smoke.

Panicking, I fumbled for my staff, still secure where it had been jarred against my back. I took it in my blackened hands and drew on my mana which I breathed out in a wave, dispelling the cloud of smoke that hung in the air. It swept out of the room in a dense fog that was already beginning to settle low to the ground, making spattering sounds where the tiny particles hit the walls.

Everyone had been thrown back as I had been, and they lay in varying states of disorganization, scattered about and crumpled deftly on top of themselves or one another. I followed the last with a cleansing aura, hoping that none were left with more than superficial bruises such as mine.

To his credit, Carver was still standing after the influx of power, shaky but upright. The lights on the pillars dimmed to nothingness and the darkness poured back into the chamber, kept at bay only by the sputtering light of our dying fire.

Larius rushed forward, "The blood works! It is good!"

Garrett had pulled himself carefully to his feet and now he strode towards Larius in a manner that was not nearly threatening enough.  
>"All this talk about blood is getting a little creepy. Are you at least going to tell me who you are?"<p>

Larius looked confused, and resumed his broken pacing. "So long since I was Larius… There was a- a title too." He thought for a minute, the effort of remembering creased his scarred face. I think I knew the answer before he said it. His broken strides had left him standing before another Grey Warden Commander crest that adorned the wall; two stylized griffons with wings outstretched in symmetry.  
>"I was Commander, Commander of the Grey!" The last was said with so much pride and nostalgia.<p>

It was so difficult to see the person amidst all that taint, but there he was, just a glimpse of his old life: the Warden Commander Larius. He must have been a great man.  
>"Poor wretch must have come down here on his Calling." I surmised.<p>

He looked up at me, recognition dawning in his cloudy eyes, "Yes. The Calling. The songs get louder." A shiver of dread made its way up my spine and crawled repulsively throughout my entire body. My song had been getting louder too. "Only death stops them. I am dead, but I never died." My blood froze, why did those last words so closely echo my own from but days ago?

"If you're a Warden," Garrett continued his interrogation, "then do you know what just happened? What does the Seal have to do with father's blood?"

"The magic, it calls to the blood, reads the thoughts of those who hold it."

Blood magic, there was no other explanation. I remembered the weird resonance of Garrett's father that had stalked these chambers. It could only be the work of demons. The Warden's would go to any lengths for their cause.

"The last to hold it… the Hawke. I- I was there when he laid the Seals. Before I became… this," Larius punctuated this last word with great sadness and self-disgust "You favour him."

A piercing shrill note struck at my mind them. It nearly knocked me to the ground with its inconceivable force. I was doubled over, gasping and cradling my throbbing head in my hands. It was dreadful and beautiful all at once.

It took me a second before I realised that Larius had heard it too, he stumbled in his fear. "Corypheus calls! In the darkness! …What waits there?"  
>This was confirmation of my darkest fears. But then Larius was gone and it was too late to ask him anything. The darkness had swallowed him up so willingly, it was the only place that he belonged now.<p>

I breathed consciously, working to stifle my emotions and the song that had crescendoed up into my thoughts again. As I composed myself, everything was excruciatingly normal. They hadn't seen me lurch forward. They were all too preoccupied with Larius' departure. Good.

I felt so cold now with the sweat clinging to my skin, and nausea clenching in my stomach.

"Let's get going, adventurers!" Garrett's eternal optimism would pull me through. It had to.

The way forward was mercifully empty. Carver said he was having trouble sensing any darkspawn and I, blindly, agreed with his assessment, pretending that I had any idea of what lay ahead.

I just wanted to move forward. I craved the sunlight on my pale skin. I wanted to smell grass and clean dirt and fresh water and rain. After having endured the polluted, rancid-meat scent that the taint exuded for so long, I yearned for these crisp, unspoiled smells.

I wanted to get out of this place. I couldn't stand what it was doing to me.

I needed control.


	14. Chapter 14: Anders

**Chapter 14: Anders**

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><p>A calm had settled over us as we walked, a misguided sense of security. We knew there was danger, we had just chosen to forget about it for this short ceasefire that the Darkspawn had given us.<p>

From somewhere in her ichor-stained bodice, Isabella procured a tarnished flask. Good thing too, the party had nearly become sombre, and I was worried that I would have to put up with my own internal dialogue. I had the knowledge of my inevitable fate pushing down upon me. The weight of it was almost too great to bear, alone in my own mind.

I was grateful when the party exploded into a frenzy of joviality and drinking games. I needed something to dull my senses and keep my mind off of my torments.

Trudging along the broken cobblestones, we got inventive.

"We passed another broken pillar. You know what that means." Varric- the mastermind.

"Everyone take a drink!" Isabela- the facilitator.

Garrett, currently in possession of the flask, and having since pulled out one of his own, swigged greedily from both- the token drunk.

He staggered into his brother who pulled him back to his unsteady feet. Carver didn't need to play at being the ever-vigilant Grey Warden that he was.

The alcohol was still warm in my chest. I was drunk enough to be charitable, but I was far from the inoperable state that Garrett had reached. I am still unconvinced that Varric or Isabella ever let themselves reach drunkenness, but Isabella at least was very good at her act.

I think it helped to mute the song, I couldn't really tell though. It was still my background orchestra, maybe I just wasn't listening. I had happier things to attend to.

I groaned, "The last time I played this game, I kissed an ogre. Please, let's _not_ go there." – Anders- the stick in the mud, as usual.

"_What!_ When was this and where was I?" Garrett brand melodramatics at their finest, "I can't believe you would cheat on me, Anders!"

"I think he _means_ you, sweet thing." Garrett looked affronted, but Isabela had misinterpreted me.

"Well, that's not strictly-" Four pairs of eyes widened simultaneously and locked onto me. I feared I'd said too much.

"Now you _have_ to give us this story, Blondie."

"Was it sexy? Even I am having a hard time imagining that, and I have a _vivid_ imagination," as an afterthought, Isabela added, "and a pretty high tolerance for indulging fetishes."

"Eurgh, Isabela. I did not need to hear that from you," Carver did look a little pale, except for his cheeks that were creeping with flush from the drink.

"Hey, it's definitely unhealthy to build up so much sexual frustration like you do, Carver. It wouldn't hurt to imbibe once in a while." Her eyes glinted knowingly and Carver's blush deepened as he fixed his gaze determinedly on the floor.

"Ew, just ew. 'Carver' and 'sexual' should definitely never be mentioned in the same sentence ever, _ever_ again, okay?" For someone so up for public groping, Garrett was a dirty hypocrite when it came to his brother. "Back to the more important topic though," he turned to me accusingly, "I know you've had a lot of ex-lovers Anders, but really, an _ogre_? I'm a little bit insulted."

"It doesn't surprise me at a-" Isabela's comment was broken by what was intended to be a gentle shove from Garrett. Unfortunately he underestimated his own strength and she ended up on the ground.

"Oh shit, sorry." He helped her to her feet awkwardly and she laughed, stumbling.

"This is a story I have to hear," Varric was always a sucker for a good blurb, "Blondie?" He invited.

"Errr," I felt blood rush to my cheeks and I knew I was turning crimson, but I was under such scrutiny, even Carver had his ear cocked to listen, "It's nothing like what I'm sure you're all thinking. You've seen ogres, how would you even…?"

"Strong resolve! You have that, Anders," Isabela supplied.

"Yeah, thanks Isabela. No. I mean-"

"This story is going to need _a lot_ of embellishments. You lack creative flair you know that? No wonder no one reads the manifestos, I told you I could spice those up, Blon-"

Garrett cut him off "-Shhh! I want to hear this."

Right, back to me again, and I thought I had done such a good job deflecting. "Would you all accept that it is a Grey Warden secret that I cannot possibly divulge to anyone, lest I risk the integrity of the Order?"

"It's not, and it won't," Carver filled in, "Spill, Magey."

I frowned at him, "See this is why we can't get along." Sighing I relented, "Well, like I said, it was like now. We had just killed a bunch of Darkspawn, Ogre included, and -get your mind out of the gutter Isabella, that is just_disgusting- _and this Dwarf I used to know, pulled out some ale and we… well, I got pretty well smashed. I don't know what we were drinking but Maker, that stuff was strong! Dwarven I think, tasted _terrible_… And I was dared to kiss the Ogre –not like a proper kiss-," I looked apologetically at my still open-mouthed lover, "and, I did."

"Absolutely no creative flair," Varric practically whined. "I can fix this later," he said as he scribbled hastily in a worn notebook.

The whole group was in hysterics now, except for Varric who was preoccupied, and Garrett whose mouth still hung open in shock or revulsion, I couldn't tell.

The last thing I expected was for him to seize me by my shoulders and pull me roughly towards him, crashing his tongue into my surprised mouth. His beard grazed my neck and his hands where everywhere; and even though my clothes were thick with the smell of blood and taint, even though the people I had to be around for the rest of the journey were all watching us fixedly, not to mention that we were in the blighted Deep Roads, I felt myself fold into his embrace, groaning involuntarily into his hungry kiss. I didn't feel so isolated anymore.

Garrett pulled away too soon. I glimpsed Carver's revolted expression over his shoulder. "That'll teach you to talk about ex-boyfriends in front of me, Anders," he said this all with utter seriousness, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Maybe I'll have to talk about them more often," I mumbled privately to Garrett, resting my panting body against his and playing idly with his fingers. It had taken me by such surprise but now I felt drunk with longing, the alcohol might have had a hand in my boldness as well. It had been so long what with the Deep Roads and the constant company, I wanted more.

"I'll say!" Isabella interjected.

The moment shattered with a shrill whisper. I jumped back from Garrett, heart beating in my throat.

I whipped my head around on my shoulders, searching for the disturbance, preparing for an ambush. A fiery glow already encasing my hand, a surge of untapped power welled up just within my reach, ready to be drawn upon.

"What is it, Anders?" Garrett and Carver had both drawn their swords and were glancing around trying to find the invisible assailant.

Isabella laughed easily, disturbing my agitated turmoil and shattering the still cadence. The sound seemed very out of place in the Deep Roads. It echoed off of the creeping corruption that covered the cavernous walls.

"There's nothing there boys_. Someone,_-" she glanced pointedly at me, "- and perhaps his glowing blue friend, are feeling a little bit paranoid." I looked down at my hands in alarm.

Isabella was right, they were barely visible, but the tell-tale blue fissures were starting to fracture my skin, trying to create a portal for Justice to fuel me. I breathed in and blinked my eyes shut hard. What? Justice had never been roused by my paranoia before. Worse still, did this mean that my reprieve was over? Had Justice returned with even more power and fury?

Isabella was right though; there was nothing there, not even insubstantial beings like wisps or spirits. When I opened my eyes again my hands were normal, wracked with tremors but otherwise normal. I clenched and unclenched them in my lap. Garrett visibly exhaled his relief.

"S-sorry, I shrugged, hugging myself and reverting to my fall-back excuse," It's the deep roads. You know what they do to me."

"You're sure?" Garrett's gaze lingered on me. The reappearance of Justice, this was definitely something we would need to talk about later. Worse, it completely killed the mood of the evening.

"Yes... Yes, I'm fine. I've still got my Warden senses, no darkspawn… yet," I gave a thin, insubstantial smile. Carver looked about as annoyed at me as he had ever been, so I reverted back to humour, "just common sense I'm lacking at the moment, apparently." What a terrible joke, I could do better. Even Garrett had grimaced, not even a polite laugh.

"I think I need to get some rest." As an afterthought I added, "So should you, I just… you aren't strong enough to fight yet." I kissed him on the cheek, pretending that what had just happened was nothing short of normalcy for us. Maybe it wasn't. I didn't wait for a response, or for anyone to try and stop me. I just got up and left. I walked away and unfurled my bedroll, knowing that I wouldn't be able to sleep properly. I hadn't been able to since I last dreamt.

Unfortunately, all this strategic move afforded me was the luxury of being alone with the music. I got lost in its strange sounds and tones, that sounded just vaguely like words but completely undiscernible.

When I woke from my fitful rest, it was with a jarring sense of urgency, with laboured breath and sweaty skin. I felt strange, as though I had been drifting amidst that soft chorus song that had followed me from the Fade, the song that had become a constant companion to my travels now.

The fire had gone out hours ago and the darkness had enveloped us with such completeness. I could feel Garrett's body pressed against mine. He was warm and comfortable and familiar, and he reeked of ale. I slid away from him and clambered uneasily to my feet, blinking the tiredness from my eyes. I waited for the blurred ghosts of my surroundings to materialise into concrete things as my eyes adjusted to the lowlight.

It had always been easier to use my Warden sense as an indicator of my surroundings. If I focused hard enough, I could feel everything as a labyrinth of winding tunnels, outlined in the thickness of the taint where it clung to the rock walls, pressing down on us from above and around and beneath. I reached out, hesitantly.

With this sense, the humming, throbbing music crescendoed into a wall of sound. Worse than the weight of rock and taint, the song was completely encasing. In every direction my mind slammed into it and it pushed back with such force.

I mentally shut it down, making ugly gasping sounds in the dark. Was this just my imagination, or was it more than that?

It sounds ridiculous, even to me, but I heard a voice amidst the song. What would they all think of me if they knew I was hearing things? Would anyone believe me? Did I even want them to know? Was this the kind of thing that would be okay to keep to myself or was it something worse?

I am slipping. Garrett's near death experience had pulled me back from the edge for a while. It was easier to focus when he so needed me to, but now… now there is that song, it's there all the time and I'm drowning in it. I can't eat, I can't sleep. My friends talk to me and I can't hear what they are saying for the music that is swallowing me up.

The pieces are getting shorter and shorter, and worse is the anxiety that is plaguing me now.

This isn't fair. My life isn't fair. I never wanted any of this.

Why couldn't I have been born without this curse? Without magic, I wouldn't have had the Circle and I wouldn't have needed to escape. There would have been no Wardens, no Justice. No running and fighting and none of this floundering, thrashing struggle that is my life.

It's a battle and I'm losing.

Startlingly, I realized that now I can understand him. Corypheus doesn't speak in human tongues or any language that I know, but I know exactly what he wants from me now and that frightens me more than anything. His is a compelling command: Release me, you're getting closer. Just like it had been in the Fade.

"I'm not listening", I tell myself, "I'm not listening!" but I can't not listen anymore. I simply cannot.

I rise, and fumble semi-blind in the darkness of my ill-equipped human senses, but it's easier now, there is a soft blue glow in this cavernous space. Where is that coming from?

And then I look to the ground and I see myself. My hands have lit up again, they are cracking open in tiny fissures of light. It's like all the power of the Fade is inside of me and is pushing for a way out. I know that it's him: Justice. I shudder.

With all of my willpower, I struggle. I push him down. I push the song out of my mind. The effort leaves me shaking and defeated. I retch but it's just a painful cramping because there is nothing in my stomach.

What is happening to me? The glow in my hands has faded, leaving nothing but the sick pallor of my skin to light the night.

I only ever wanted control.

Here, crouched as I find myself on the cold, rock floor. Shaking and crying in the dirt. I want it to end. I need to get out of this place, I need to forget it. I need to talk to someone.

I rock forward, stones are biting in to my palms so I struggle again to my feet.

I need my stave. This was never my magic's fault. It is the entire institution of the Circle, delegating power and privilege unfairly to those of its choosing. Letting sufferers suffer and the blessed rise and prosper. They call magic a curse and foster a culture of fear and aggression, the 'us' and 'them' mentality.

I breathe consciously, working to stifle the fire that is clawing at my gut. Gradually, the burning resentment subsides into a coal of anger, smouldering away. I can smother it temporarily, but it always roars to life again when provoked, it never truly dies. It burns the fumes of injustice, and it will never be extinguished with the amount of fuel that the Circle provides. Not unless something gives.

A brilliant realisation pushed itself logically to the forefront of my mind. My stave: I'm not a hopeless blind man, I am a mage, and one who should be particularly practiced at survival in the Deep Roads by now. I mumbled an incantation and my stave, not metres from where I had lain, spluttered into illumination, casting a benevolent blue glow around our camp and on the sleeping forms of my friends.

I trudged to the straight-backed silhouette that I could just vaguely see in the darkness, more confident in my footfalls now with the comforting light. It was Carver.

In that instant I resolved to tell him about the song, about Corypheus and Justice and everything. I needed to tell someone and I didn't want Garrett to worry, and I thought that maybe out of everyone, Carver stood the highest chance of understanding.

In the darkness I thought, I will finally be able to tell someone, I will finally be rid of this secrecy. I won't have to pretend that I am alright anymore. It's too hard and I am so tired of doing this on my own.

But as I approached him, Carver stood quickly and he smiled at me with such tiredness and gratefulness in his eyes that a strange fear and sense of obligation gripped me and I just couldn't say anything. Instead, I relieved him wordlessly; I didn't trust myself to speak. He nodded his thanks before departing into the night and I did the same thing that I do every night. I waited and watched and I got lost in Corypheus' song.


	15. Chapter 15: Hawke

**Chapter 15: Hawke**

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><p>My first sensation upon waking was that I felt undeniably sordid. This was compounded tenfold by the stale, dryness of my mouth and the throbbing headache that made my every movement and sound feel just a little bit fetid.<p>

Ah, the mighty hangover: conqueror of Champions since the dawn of ages.

I found myself sprawled awkwardly across two bedrolls, although the majority of my body had landed on the hard, greasy floor, leaving my skin feeling gritty and viscid. All of the familiar aches and pains that I could have sworn were becoming less persistent had reawakened. Had I thought that I might be comfortable here? How ever did I convince myself that this unnatural position would _ever_ be suitable for sleep?

Last night was, retrospectively, not the most productive way I could have spent my recovery period. Drunkenness was definitely something I had missed though, and evidently something that I was way out of practice with.

I pulled my protesting body from the floor. All that delightful lurching and instability of the night before was still with me, but gone were the exultant overtones that had made it enjoyable. Now I just felt dizzy and nauseous, and oddly warm.

I dragged myself wretchedly to one of the streams that we had been using for cooking and cleaning. It was fresh, clean water and its source in a place like this could only be magical. I hadn't realised I was so thirsty until I was gulping down water, practically inhaling the stuff. Then I made an effort to wash my body, ridding myself of as much of the foul, greasy residue as possible. The task was impossible, it covered everything. The thought that I had been lying in the filth for however many hours was just disgusting.

I can't believe Anders didn't at least push me back onto the bedrolls. That should have been easy for him in the apparently 'weakened' state that I am in. I fumed silently for a minute before remembering that this wasn't his fault. If anything, I owed my damned life to him. He was just being overprotective, which was exactly why people thought he was the woman in the relationship. This I found intensely funny, as always.

Where was that man?

I scanned the darkness of the camp once again. Someone had had the sense to start a fire last night, but its coals were only a dim red glow now and they cast only a little waning light about the room. It wasn't being tended to now though, so it was likely that we had all fallen asleep and let our guard down completely.

Not very sensible at all.

I listed off the sleeping bodies that were scattered absently around the gutted fire: Carver, black hair and pale skin, sleeping curled up in the way that he has since he was a child. The short one was Varric, no doubt. The last was curvier than anyone else here could hope to appear when blanketed: Isabella.

There was no fourth, only the empty two that I had woken up between.

I remembered… _something_ of last night but it was all very blurred and disjointed now. Anders… had stormed off by himself. That wasn't so unusual, especially if I might have embarrassed him, but I thought he had been having a good time? …Why hadn't I gone after him? Or maybe I had, but I couldn't well remember it now. Damn it, had I done something that I would need to apologize for?

To the void with alcohol and all the trouble it causes me! With this thought, its remnants pounded again at my head and I was for once grateful that the lack of light and sound down here meant little aggravation to that pain.

A soft muttering broke intermittently through the silence of my thoughts, echoing as though from far off in distant hallways. Deep Stalkers maybe? Had they followed us? And, startlingly, where was Anders, off alone and so vulnerable?

I gathered up my sword, practically leaping over my sleeping friends, barefoot and without armour, I rushed towards that murmuring. I didn't really think that Anders was in any danger. If he were I surely would have been roused sooner by his spellcasting and shouting. That man could simply not keep his mouth shut in a battle; all that "Har!" and "Die, bastards!" and my favourite: "I'll show you why mages are feared!" It was all so very reassuring that he was still there, fighting by my side.

…Unless they had snuck up on him. He hadn't heard them last time after all.

I abruptly quickened my pace toward the noise, now in a jolting sprint that had my knife wound aching and my feet pebbled uncomfortably with stones. Expecting… I don't really know what I was expecting; and then I stumbled upon him, practically tripping over my own feet to stop myself from crashing into him. I realised then that the murmuring was his. It was so quiet I wouldn't have heard it at all in any other setting. Here, nothing made a sound.

He was sitting stiff-backed and facing away from me, perched on a particularly large and tainted stone that might have revolted him, but he didn't look revolted. He didn't look anything really. He was miles away, unfocused. Or maybe he was too focused, except on senses that I couldn't even begin to comprehend.

I snuck up behind him to let him know that it was morning, or what counted as morning here anyway, and that he didn't need to stand sentry anymore. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, snuggling my face into the feathers of his coat. I was being a great boyfriend as usual, even in light of the momentary infarct that he had caused me with this scare.

Anders did not give an inch. His posture was still stiff; he hadn't even relaxed into my arms. If anything, he leaned forward as though I were an annoying insect that had attached myself to him.

"Well that's no way to say good morning." Anders writhed out of my grip and stood. He walked a few paces away from me and paused there just as he had been before, as though no one had spoken to him at all.

Right then, apologies must be in order. "Listen, sweetheart. I just… I'm sorry," I would have to keep this ambiguous so he wouldn't realise that I had no idea what I was apologizing for. "I didn't mean to upset you." There, that sounded very vague, but hopefully convincing.

He said nothing, but turned his body further away from me.

I was mildly affronted. That wasn't _that_ bad of an apology, I overcame so much pride to spit it out. Maker, what _had_ I done? More likely though, what was wrong with him? I was determined to be stubborn for the rest of the day now, show him what happens when he doesn't throw himself at me with lustful abandon each morning. He'll get his just desserts.

He was still muttering, but not to me. Stubborn bastard, he wasn't going to get out of this conversation by avoiding it. I heaved my body up, still groggy with sleep and hangover, but determined to look formidable, and stumbled over to stand next to him. He shuffled away slightly, but gave no other indication that he knew I was there.

My irritation dissolved completely when I stopped to take in his dishevelled appearance. A frown pinched his brow and his honey eyes were staring at an invisible point so far in the distance, but they didn't look as though they were seeing at all. This wasn't normal.

"Anders?"

His muttering became louder, insistent, as though he were having an argument with himself, or with Justice, perhaps. I caught snippets of dialogue, but mostly tone. There was denial and there were whispers of "weakness" and "I'm trying."

Alarmingly, he turned and gripped his head between both hands as though it were about to explode, his knees buckled under his struggle. I dove forward to catch him, but he writhed out of my grasp like my touch burned him.

"No!" His tone pitched in anguish, "Get out of my head!"

Reflexively, I jumped back from him. What did that mean? Who was in his head? Was this some kind of curse, maybe? His breath was coming faster now. It was like he was having a panic attack; his chest was rising and falling shallowly and I could see nearly all the muscles in his neck and stomach straining silently under his clothing with the effort. How long had he been in this state? His fingers were curled tightly, as though they were cramped into position. I hadn't seen him like this before, and it frightened me.*****

I took his face in my hands, feeling the friction of my calloused palm and his stubbled chin, he writhed to pull away but I held his face firmly. My fingers left divots in his sallow cheek, -and how long had he been looking this gaunt?

His breathing rate increased moreso now that he was trapped. He would not meet my eyes, looking straight through me.

"Anders." I said earnestly, applying the forceful inflection that I only used when I really needed someone to listen; an imitation of my father. It was the voice that I had used to convince Justice to spare Ella. Anders' eyes snapped to mine and I felt his entire body jolt back to reality and then sag as though defeated. This time he did fall, but he let me catch him and I carefully lowered us both to the stone floor. I was so close to him that I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, collecting in tiny rivers along his worry lines.

He exhaled raggedly, eyes, still wide with confusion, confining pupils that darted around to take in our surroundings before settling finally on me. I pressed our foreheads together, feeling his clammy skin on mine. We rested there for a while with our faces together and when we came apart to look at one another, his long, graceful nose had a mirror swipe of blood across the bridge.

"What happened?" I asked.

He closed his eyes and I saw that his lashes were damp. I watched the gleaming saltwater fall, clearing a path through the residue of dirt on his skin.

"I don't know, Garrett." His tone was passive and forsaken.

"It's like you weren't even there"

"I-I don't think I was." He was still shaky, hugging his thin body. I could tell he was counting out his breathing rate, getting it under control. When it had slowed he flexed the fingers of each hand, and rubbed the knuckles in turn.

I watched him with interest. The way he performed this routine it was almost as though he was just absently fixing and dismissing his problems, as though they had never happened. He was the healer and he knew how bodies worked… but his hands! The way they had seized up, twisted and contorted as they were. Why had that happened? Did it hurt, I wondered? And was this the first time that it had happened or was it something he had been hiding from me?

He wiped roughly at his face with his coat sleeve and then his responsive, amber eyes returned to me, "Thank you."

I was holding his hands in mine now, studying their normalcy. "I'm just so glad I got here in time."

He laughed, it was a dry, raspy laugh with little humour, before holding up his hands so we could both see them better. "There is nothing wrong with me_ physically_. That was normal for someone who… someone in the state that you found me in."

He rubbed his neck, letting his breath come slower and more deliberately than before.

I didn't know if I wanted to pry this conversation out of him or not, but with the way he had just phrased that, I couldn't just overlook it.

"Just physically?" I probed, prompting a resigned sigh from him and more eye-contact aversion.

"I-I might have been asleep but… Maker, it felt so real! Like a Warden dream but, different." His voice lowered to a whisper and now he was talking it over to himself more than he was to me, "Maybe I'm madder than I thought."

"You're not mad," I hesitated, not wanting to dig up bad associations, "It wasn't Justice, then?"

He shook his head, "No… No and yes. He was there but… not in control any more than I was."

I frowned and took his hands again. Who was in control then? Not Justice at least, but… he had taken control last night, I remembered now with a start, which meant that he probably would again, that is how it had been the last time.

I didn't know what to say to him that could make whatever he was going through any easier because I had no idea what was wrong inside that head of his, or that I could even begin to understand it. Shouldn't Anders have been the one most equipped to deal with whatever these tunnels could throw at him?

Nothing else could be said, so I tugged his hand to follow me back to our camp.

If it wasn't Justice, was it the Wardens again maybe? I wondered again what had happened back in Amaranthine that caused him to flee as he had done. What was he running from, and what had he left behind? Could it be so different to everything he had escaped from in the Circle? Even people like Anders, so removed from the Order and with so little loyalty and even less gratification towards it, would still hold so tightly to their secrets.

It had taken so much anger and resolution to pry information from him the last time. Could there be worse Grey Warden secrets than the Calling?

Or was this just another ghost from his past that had caught up to him?

I knew from experience that some things never left you, they left deep psychological chasms. Maybe time and company would heal them, but the rigid scar tissue would always remain: awkward and uncomfortable. It was still like that when I thought of my father, my sister, my mother, and very nearly, Carver. That was one that had been saved from what would have been a terrible fate, and one is enough. Two, if you count Carver's unlikely saviour: Anders. And I would always count Anders. But was he really saved?

I looked over at my lover, futilely trying not to fumble as he put one rigid foot in front of the other. What had happened that had broken Anders like this? Had his wounds ever really began to heal? Or were they still raw and gaping, a constant source of pain, draining him, little by little? Had I helped him at all?

Maker, why did I even bring him here? It had only stirred up bad memories, things that he tried so hard to leave buried. I knew he hated the Deep Roads, but it hadn't been this bad last time. Not even close.

I stopped, his hand was still in mine and he walked another step before he realised that I was no longer leading. He paused and turned to me, that familiar expression of guilt and confusion pulling at his brows again, wondering what he had done wrong. It was terrible to see.

What could I do for him? I was so out of my depth. There was nothing in the world more perplexing than Anders. The Qunari, the Dalish, Meridith even, I can negotiate with; I know what drives and motivates them, I know how to react to them and act around them. But what did Anders need from me? Was it even something that I had to offer?

This, perhaps, was what had intrigued me about him to begin with. I just couldn't figure him out, but I so very much wanted to.

He still looked confused as to why I had stopped him, and I still hadn't found the right words to tell him that nothing he could do or become would ever stop me from loving him. I just wanted him to be okay. So I pulled him to me and held him there.

I was never good with words; it was so much easier to show him how I felt with our bodies. We fit so nicely like this, with my face buried in his hair, his breath on my shoulder. He locked his arms around me and his hands were the perfect shape to cradle my shoulders.

I brushed his sandy hair away from his forehead, still clammy with sweat, and kissed his cool skin. Anders' had never been brought up with comforting gestures like this and for that he relished them all the more.

The sound of light footfalls was echoing down the passage from the direction of our camp but we stayed exactly as we were. They could find us like this, I didn't care.

* * *

><p><em><strong>*What I am aiming to describe here are the clinical symptoms of severe hyperventilations. Too much CO2 expulsion, leading to blood alkalosis which causes chest pain, and peripheral paraesthesia and skeletal muscle cramping. It's all rooted in anxiety, and the symptoms usually exacerbate the condition, but my idea is that Anders, being a healer, knows what is happening to him physiologically, but at the time when Hawke found him, he was in a kind of fugue state where he wasn't conscious of his own behaviour at all. <strong>_


	16. Chapter 16: Hawke

**Chapter 16: Hawke**

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><p>A faint radiance was cast upon the stone wall; a swirling, scarlet glow. As Varric, Carver and Isabella approached us, I saw their shadows growing tangible, cutting silhouettes through the strange light that trembled around their edges. Their proportions were exaggerated and deformed, each an amusing caricature of themselves. It would have been funny, but I was having a hard time appreciating it under the current circumstances.<p>

They approached without a sound and stood behind us, waiting to be acknowledged.

I'm quite sure Anders knew they were there, even with his eyes closed and his face pressed against my shoulder, the same way I would have felt their presence were there no light to cast their images on the wall before me. It was as though I could feel faint impressions of them, just as easily as I could feel the whisper of Anders' eyelashes on my skin.

Varric cleared his throat and with shuffling steps, I turned us around awkwardly to face them. It might have irritated me that they had chosen this moment to wake up and follow us. Although if something where amiss, something that might be helped anyway, then I would be glad that they were here. Besides, I had said everything I could to Anders already, though he still clung to me like I was a piece of driftwood in a storm. I stroked his hair absently and fixed as reproachful expression as I could muster onto my face.

Carver's hair was tousled and his mouth was wide open in a yawn. Varric was vigorously rubbing sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. He stretched and his neck made a satisfying crack. They were all armoured and had lazily dragged their weapons along, but only Isabella had bright eyes, as open and as alert as ever.

She spoke, "So… what are you two doing off alone by yourselves without boots" she let her eyes trail up my body, finally coming to rest on my bare chest, "or shirts." Ignoring the fact that Anders was fully clothed, she quirked her eyebrow up suggestively. Sadly, she was always too quick to make her assumptions.

"We were just scouting ahead. It is far stealthier to sneak without metal plated boots."

I was confident the lie would be blatant enough that she would leave the subject alone. But she soldiered on, eyeing my chest suspiciously and voraciously, "and your shirt?" I was suddenly aware of every little scar and blemish on my body. In particular, my newest: that twisting pink knot of scar tissue that sat uncomfortably under my ribcage. The angry red had faded to a pink but the flesh was still shiny and smooth. Her eyes didn't really bother me as they should have, I thought of these marks as battle trophies more than flaws. I was oddly proud.

"It rustles." I kept my face deliberately neutral, selling it. This was the only answer she was going to get from me.

No one would hear that I had run headlong from the camp in the grip of terror; that what I had found had been more distressing that anything of my own imagining; that I was utterly helpless and ignorant of what was happening to Anders. Even now, he was strange and withdrawn. I would keep our secret.

"U-hu." Isabella drew out those two syllables far longer than they needed to be and then let them hang in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time. Fine, let her know that I'm lying. This thought flitted through my mind and it was suddenly strange to me that I would consider lying to my friends. I could usually tell them anything. I expected to be able to trust them and they should have trust in me. They had never before had a reason not to.

Everyone had their secrets, and apparently I fit the general profile of a good confidant, because for some reason the people that I met would always feel the need to reveal to me their deepest secrets and highest ambitions, their fears and their vices. I often played this role to complete strangers with little experience of, or reason to trust me, and some who had every reason not to. The Chantry should offer me a job.

It was the same with my friends. While Isabella had lied about the true value and significance of her Qunari relic, I could never ignore the fact that she had thrown it all away, returning, against her better instincts, to save Kirkwall and my sorry ass.

Merril perhaps kept one of the deadliest secrets from the world, that she was a blood mage and intent on restoring a Dalish artefact that could very likely have dire consequences for more than just herself. But she had been honest with me from the beginning, and I knew if it came to it she would make the right decision. Appearances aside, Merril was not a stupid girl.

Even Fenris, as socially withdrawn and distrusting as he is, would still reveal to me his past and present, and the greater experiences that have shaped who he is and how he sees the world. I could never be angry at Fenris for distrusting mages, not after what they had taken and forced upon him. He is so much like Anders in this way, completely uncompromising.

Anders… the glaring exception to my rule.

Of course, I have trusted him completely from the very beginning. But at the same time I know that he has given me plenty of reasons not to. They say that love is blind; in my case, it might as well be deaf and dumb too. I don't know if I would ever be able to see through the man I love to any darkness that might be inside him. Even Varric and Aveline had voiced doubts about our relationship in the past, and Fenris was downright malicious on the issue.

I had no illusions to the fact that Anders was not always in control, nor that he told me very little of his life and his past. If he said not to ask, or that he couldn't say anything for my safety, I didn't. I never would.

I remember just after he had moved in at the estate, he would often be absent for the entire night. It was either the clinic or it was his cause. He had mentioned the Mage Underground only briefly to me once when he had no other option but to ask for my help, though he had elaborated very little on what exactly it required of him. For all I knew it was a knitting circle where apostates gathered to discuss kittens and exchange their favourite Templar jokes. The only time I had seen him working for his cause, besides the manifesto, he had completely lost himself to Justice, who had very nearly taken an innocent life.

At the start he would make excuses or alibis, and then one night he had come home, dragging his shaking body through the door, layered in sweat and filth that smelt like the sewers, with matted blood sticking in his hair and plastered to his skin. He didn't even make it up the stairs before collapsing on the rug. Poor Bodahn nearly died at the sight. I had tended his wounds and coaxed him to rest and asked no questions. I didn't need an answer from him: this was Anders.

After that, he had stopped making excuses, he would leave and if he didn't tell me where he was going then I could make my own assumptions. It was, as he said, to protect me, and I have no animosity towards him for that. I can relate.

I know that Anders has no intentions to hurt anyone. Not unless they damned well deserve it at least, and in any case, he knows when to pick his battles and when it is smarter to up and leave.

But this person who clings to me now, how much of this person is Anders? Could he be a danger to the others, or to me, or our expedition here? Is he a danger to himself?

I couldn't answer these questions. Anyway, what, if any, other options do I have? Leave him here in the Deep Roads? I would sooner throw him in the Gallows than resign him to that fate. Tell the others? What would that accomplish? Talk to him... There it is, my reasonable solution, but how can I? Will it make things better, or worse? What will I say?

I really should tell the others, but this is Anders, my Anders.  
>…but not<em> only<em> Anders, I reminded myself. Under my own contentions, I relented. If he gets any worse, I will have to tell the others because there is no use in talking to someone who isn't there?

For the first time, the quality of light in the room really began to disturb me. There were a few lit torches on the walls, but these were not responsible for the faintly wavering, red hue of the room. The light hadn't bothered me before; I hadn't considered its source or even acknowledged its presence. I was so used to the luxury and normalcy of light that I had forgotten that down here it was an absurdity; and when the light was coloured and fading and swelling, it was usually not a good omen.

Peeking through from behind Carver as he shifted his footing was a bright red light. Distractedly, I strode over to the wall, leaving Anders and gently pushing between Carver and Isabella to stand before it. My eyes fell upon another crest sporting the Grey Warden Commander heraldry, encasing a swirling, blood-red orb, just like those from the first floor of the tower. I reached out to grasp the thing as I had done the last time, remembering the pleasantly warm sensation of it prickling over my skin.

Varric stopped me with a firm grasp on my elbow, "Hawke, do you want to go get your armour first?" He eyed my scantily-clad self warily.

I couldn't help from snorting with amusement, "You honestly don't think I can take on a couple of shades without my armour? Even Carver could do that."

As predicted, my brother rolled his eyes, "Things get more complicated the deeper you travel down here."

"I'll risk it," I reached out again, hesitating just long enough for Anders to make his protest, but he said nothing, his distant eyes were lost to the creases and joinings of the stone floor. So I grasped the orb, and watched the magic bend and curl around my hand, feeling the tickle of it as it flooded across my palm.

We were all expecting it, but my when my Father's sonorous voice cleaved through the air, we startled like Halla. It felt as though the sound had no point of origin, but emanated from the fortress itself. This time I knew it was him, I remembered his voice; nothing like my own.

The passage we were in was jagged, and I had leapt unthinkingly down more than a few winding, square flights of stairs in my haste to reach Anders. Turning one more corner, just as the voice faded back into memory, my father's image, sculpted in snaking coils of blue smoke, took its final step before dispersing in the air.

His message had been exactly the same as the last time: _Bound here for eternity… _And there behind him, as the vestiges of his impression finally dissipated, stood my Father's burden and his charge, caged by his gift. The fortress went deeper still. This time, the barrier disguised a vaguely humanoid shape, but it carried a twisted mass on its shoulders, and it held its arms out from its body, thick with deformity: Abomination. Easy.

"I guess he didn't have any other party tricks." I muttered, stepping toward the only lit orb, the one that swirled left from the centre of the barrier. I knew this effort was pointless but I felt very much like I needed to try every piece of the puzzle, because one might just surprise me.

My hand pushed into the barrier, as though I were stretching a film of rubber. The warmth was there except it wasn't pleasant anymore, it burned. My skin was already blistering before I withdrew it with an embarrassing yelp which lurched into word-like syllables. It sounded vaguely like: "Ice! Anders, Ice! Now!" My arm, without any conscious thought, was flailing madly through the air as though my skin were still afire.

Behind me, my friends were trying very hard not to break out into gleeful chuckles, stifling their laughter with bitten lips and palms clamped over their mouths.

Even Anders let out a bemused chuckle as caught my hand, enveloping it in his own, "Ice is just going to burn you more." Instead he infused my skin with a cool, healing energy. It was almost worth the pain for how beautifully normal Anders' response was, "Be careful next time."

"Right. I guess we need to find another orb then," composing myself, I strode on, fully intent on sweeping that little display into a corner and leaving it there to rot with taint and spiders, but their stifled chuckles were only footsteps behind. I stopped again, sighing exaggeratedly, "Go on then, I suppose I deserved that one." The sound bubbled up, so mirthful and alien in this setting that I threw away my pride and joined in. It was infectious, that sound. Besides, there was no better way to judge when a person became overly pretentious than when they lost the ability to laugh at themselves, and I was not going to lump myself in with the rest of the Hightowners just yet.

I kept on into the next room. This one was half filled with piles of debris and sand accumulated from a ceiling collapse that might have happened eons ago. Corpses lay half buried, now nothing but staring skeletons still wearing nearly all their armour. Some had died clutching rusted weapons in their fleshless grasps.

"Do you feel that?" Anders spoke softly.

Absently, I acknowledged him, "Huh?"

Had these men- and I could see that they must have been men from the size of their bones and the shape of their skulls- had they been buried alive here? Surely they wouldn't have died from this much debris? Their bodies were still jutting out from the sand, and it was only sand. I took a step forward. I could see that no bones were obviously broken to tell of long ago injuries, there was none of the normal breaks and degradation that you would expect to have been wrought over time. Were they not able to move? Had they been abandoned where they lay under the sand and rubble, until they starved to death or were picked clean by Deep Stalkers? I took another step forward. Why were their skeletons in such good condition?

"Garrett…"

Maybe they had died with something valuable on them? Well, Hawke's got to make a living somehow. As I took another step toward the skeletons, the room went cold and void before I felt something intangible rush by my ear. Then, shambling awkwardly, the skeletons heaved themselves into animation, tightening their grips on their long disused, rust-eaten weapons.

I leapt back from them in alarm, stumbling ungracefully into Varric and almost sending us both tumbling to the ground. With surprising strength, he pushed me back to my feet and into the oncoming skeletons, now with their bones all in the right order and blundering towards me. They were raising their blunt weapons laboriously.

Without further fumbling, I drew my greatsword. That play-dead trick worked on me every time; I could never resist a good looting. We broke back into the familiar thrill of battle. My body felt light and powerful and my pulse beat a steady surge of pure potential.

I was trying very hard to pulverise the skeleton before me into absolute dust so it would never be able to frighten unwary looters again.

"Find the Mage!" Anders yelled from behind me. I felt his hand on my back accompanied by a strange sensation that danced over my skin as I ran forward. There were skeletons swarming into the room from the passage ahead, lurching with a crepitating sickness. There was no flesh to cut into, no blood to be spilled, just brittle bone. All the connecting muscles and tendons were gone, their shamble was controlled by summoned spirits, puppets of a greater magic. They were slow, but they swarmed us and would not stay down.

Find the puppeteer; find the mage.

I lunged in to the next room, swinging my greatsword in a wide arc before me. Those that didn't meet my blade I ignored, instead I collided with and pushed through their ranks. No one was targeting me, in this moment, without my armour, I was seen as the lowest threat. Good then, I would surprise them.

A translucent globe was visible over the bald skulls of the skeleton troops, fashioned into a physical shield by a darkspawn emissary that hid within its protective wall. The emissary was tall and grey skinned with a flat nose and deep, yellowed pits for eyes. Its skin was speckled with sickly, black spots. Trailing down from its bald skull, the emissary's spine protruded unnaturally and was fused in a rigid posture. Its pointed ears were marred by crude piercings and scars, and the ends of its wickedly long fingers were swirling and crackling with visible power.

Its dress was disturbingly similar to what an apostate mage might wear, robes with spiked shoulder guards, adorned with trinkets and belts. But the material and craftsmanship was a poor imitation that was alive with corruption. It was easy to see how these were the smartest of the darkspawn, and it was always scary how similar to people they could behave.

I was kicking out at the tide of skeletons, knocking them back with my fists and elbows as much as I was with my sword. It was strange how every slice of their crude weapons seemed to just pass by me. I didn't risk stopping to find out why, I just kept moving toward my target. The spherical shield before me was waning now under an assault of Varric's crossbow bolts.

As the shield spluttered and fell, I was still feet away from reaching the emissary. It seized the opportunity and, with a screeching cry, it cast just as my sword cleaved down into the side of its neck and shoulder, and then it was gone in an implosive blink of matter.

The emissary's spell had created a vast, orange ball of light that hovered just above the ground. Everything moved slower around it and the air seemed to twist and pull inward. I saw Carver and Isabella straining to get out of its magic, but the slowness had a hold on them and they were barely moving away as it dragged them toward its centre. I could feel its force drawing me as well, it was almost magnetic.

Varric was in the doorway, safe from the powerful magic, and firing off round after round of bolts at the never ending tide of skeletons, picking off the archers first and then the swordsmen. I couldn't see Anders, but I could hear his voice above the rush of magic.

The orange light exploded into an astronomical star of brightness and Isabella, as well as the skeletons around her who were also caught in the magic's pull, were thrown back on the floor. Carver remained on his feet, breaking into a run almost as soon as the pull released him. He pushed past the skeletons, I could only assume that he was zoning in on the emissary with his Warden sense. I followed him into the previous room.

The emissary was in the corner as we dove into the room, and my brother and I slammed into it with our swords. Mages had almost no power at close range, and each time it raised its arms or opened its mouth, our blades would cut into it, letting gurgling rasps spill from its mouth instead of incantations.

When it finally fell, the skeletons dropped as though released. The magic that had controlled them was gone. All that was left of their attack were piles of bones on the floor and the cuts and bruises on our skin.

I took a moment to kick the bones a bit, crushing them with my bare feet and scattering them around the floor so they couldn't possibly assemble themselves again. I realised that the bottoms of my feet were raw with cuts and gravel. The pain was only just beginning to set in, and my body began to feel strained and weakened. Amidst the skeleton's scattered remains I caught a glimpse of shimmering metal. I stooped to pick up a large, gold amulet that was beautifully engraved with all manner of runes. Huh, they were worth looting after all.

When I raised my eyes, I saw the second orb on the wall, presented by the duel griffons of the grey warden heraldry. I turned to face my companions, panting and slouching in various degrees of exhaustion against the walls. I could read it on each of their faces that they were almost pleading me not to touch the next orb. I wasn't really feeling up to it at the moment either; we would take this short reprieve.

"Let's go get my armour."

Anders nodded; his skin was bruised and cut in so many places. With a mumble and a gesture of his staff, I felt like an invisible shroud had fallen from my body. It left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. That explained why none of the skeletons seemed to have damaged me despite their best efforts, and why there wasn't the usual roar of flames or crackle of electricity amidst the battle.

Anders had used his mana to protect me instead of to defend himself. How could I have thought that he would do anything to hurt us, when he had only ever been a protector and a healer?

How could I think that of him?

No. This was Anders. My Anders. He would not lose himself.


	17. Chapter 17: Hawke

**Chapter 17: Hawke**

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><p>Without the surge of adrenaline swamping my observational skills, I was able to properly take in my surroundings. It seemed that the deeper we travelled the more derelict the place became, like it was rotting from the bottom up, all the dark secrets corrupting everything within their reach. Mind you, the top half wasn't anything special either, but I suppose the all of the tainted Carta dwarves might have obscured my capacity for architectural appreciation.<p>

I was wading through a layer of thick fog that clung resolutely to the stone floor, it swirled around my knees as I pushed forward, never moving enough to reveal the ground that we blindly walked upon. I would sometimes hear the ominous crunch and snap of things breaking underfoot. It sounded like bones. Poor Varric was up to his waist in the strange mist, the whole lower half of his clothing looked soggy and his boots had starting to make annoying squelching sounds with every step.

It didn't take long to realise that this was not normal fog. It spilled unnaturally over the brims of metal torches that were scattered rhythmically along the walls. Perhaps 'torches' was the wrong label for these things, for all they did was obscure our passage. Only half of them seemed to have this function, which must mean that half were broken. As to _which _half were doing as they were supposed to, I had no clue.

Although it didn't appear to be harming us -apart from provoking a string of muttered profanities from Varric- I was still suspicious of the fog. I made sure to take ridiculously tall strides so as to have as little contact as I could manage with it. If our dwarf dropped dead suddenly, we would all know the culprit.

Our objective, the Grey Warden crest, was exactly where we had left it, the magical orb staring brazenly out at us like a great, red, eye. Standing before it now, I felt far more prepared than the last time. I had donned my armour after only a small struggle, it was easier now that I could remember where everything went. Rogues and mages have it so easy, how I envy their luxury of hasty dressing and undressing. Well, all except Anders and his infernal buckles, those are a nightmare no matter how much practice you have at undoing them.

My greatsword sat familiarly in its proper place against my back, but I drew it pre-emptively as we walked toward the glowing heraldry upon the wall. This part we knew. At my touch, the light of the orb blinked out. If it was blood circling a drain before, now I had pulled the plug. The light swirled in on itself and then it was gone. Now, only one lit orb remained, swirling invitingly in the centre of the barrier.

I understood these barriers and lights to be prisons made to cage powerful spirits. What I didn't understand was why? What were the Grey Wardens -and my father, seeing as though he was apparently involved- doing keeping demons alive? It didn't make any sense.

In my opinion, anything that could be learned from spirits was not worth learning at all. You could only glean dangerous information and ideas, the kind of things that drive men to madness. If I believed the Chantry's teachings -and I had no evidence one way or the other- then it is true that the first magisters of the Tevinter Imperium had been tricked to usurp the Maker's throne by demons that proclaimed themselves to be Gods. They had won the magisters' trust with honest truths, giving them a taste of the terrible power that they craved. Then the false Gods had exploited the magisters' greed to betray them in deepest consequence. Or, maybe I was reading it wrong, but in my experience spirits were better off left alone or destroyed.

Darkly, I thought of Justice and what he had done to Anders. I thought of Merrill and her tendencies to blood magic. They trusted too much. Had there ever been a case where consort with spirits had been beneficial? If it existed, I should very much like to be enlightened on the matter.

With my back to my audience, I adopted my most entitled, schoolteacher-like tone of voice, "Alright team. Here we have an abomination. Now, I'm not going to preach to you because I know you are all no strangers to these things. Anders and Varric, keep your distance in case it brings friends, which it likely will. Try and go for the whole area so you don't leave anyone out. I don't see anything around for summoned spirits to inhabit so expect to see lessor demons like shades. Isabella, don't let anything go for Anders while he is casting. Carver and I will take the abomination."

I spun around on my heel and was momentarily startled to see only Carver, doubled over and snickering. I thought for a moment that he was a pale, beardless reflection of me. Something moved on my periphery and I turned to see Varric waving honestly at me from a little way off down the hall, flanked conspiratorially by Anders and Isabella, where they had probably been standing long enough to have heard none of my ambling speech.

"Don't try to stun the shades!" Anders called out. His voice sounded like it was reaching me through a tube. "And save your poisons! They're resistant to nature… and electricity." He grumbled a little. Besides healing, electricity was his specialty. How useful his Circle education was sometimes.

I was mildly disconcerted until Carver moved beside me with his sword drawn. We locked eyes.

"Ready?" I goaded him, smirking as I did. Carver always fought harder when he was trying to prove himself, although he didn't need to anymore, something which he would never understand. He narrowed his eyes.

"Always," he replied.

I grasped the orb and the barrier consumed itself outwards from my hand. As the opaque curtain dissolved, the abomination was revealed in all its grotesque horror. No matter how many of these creatures that I laid eyes upon, I could never get used to the sight. It was probably the fact that they were still so human in appearance. I was always reminded that this monster that I was slaughtering used to be a person.

It looked like it was wearing its host like a suit of deformed skin. I couldn't help but picture the mages I knew twisted like that: Bethany, Anders, Merrill. I pushed those thoughts from my mind and let the adrenaline surge over it all. Carver and I ploughed into the creature, cleaving our greatswords against its warped flesh, ignoring the personal clothing and jewellery, the vestiges of a human life stolen long ago.

Behind us, the rubble shifted to erect itself around a shattered skeleton that must have pulled itself up from deep under the stone. I could hear them scraping and thundering to life all around us. These rock creatures rose, twirling clubs of stone in the air. Profanes; their appearance shouldn't have been surprising, considering our last Deep Roads endeavour, but we hadn't planned for it. Carver and I kept at the abomination before us, not giving it the chance to summon anything else from its domain. It was weak to our physical onslaught.

I felt a blast of icy air rush past my back as I ran my sword through the abomination. It slumped down to the ground with my blade still embedded in its middle, pulling me forward. I worked to kick it's limp body off of my sword and when I finally freed it and managed to turn around, I let my eyes sweep the room.

I watched one creature fall as three crossbow bolts slammed into its skull. A split second later, Carver's sword landed viciously against its back. Another profane, already frosted and slow from Anders' onslaught of ice, broke apart with twin strikes from Isabella's daggers. All this felt like it was happening so slowly, as though time was taken frame-by-frame for the kill, but it passed in only seconds.

Our enemy fell in pieces to the floor amidst the rubble, and the bone-and-rock corpses of their brethren. I turned away before the fragments even came to rest; my attention was fixed where I knew the figure would materialize. The blue haze that facilitated my father's memory seemed to sweep into formation from every corner of the room, building him up until he was almost real again. And then he spoke, the power of his voice was potent after the sudden break in chaotic dissonance.

"I may have left the circle, but I took a vow. My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base." I remembered those words.

"'That which is best in me'" Carver murmured, his face crumpled in memory, "Father used to say that, didn't he? To Bethany? She never felt like she could live up to him."

Beth had always blamed herself for our having to move around all the time. She had hated her magic as a child, believing the propaganda spread by the Chantry that magic was a curse. Eventually Beth stopped believing that, but I don't think she ever forgave herself properly. It took Carver and I a long time to understand that.

It isn't fair that she had to die, and what I hate beyond _anything_ in this world is knowing that I will never see her smiling face again. I will never be witness to that enduring optimism. I will never be able to tell her all those things that I should have when I had the chance. I had taken her for granted. Beth never had a bad word to say about anyone, she didn't deserve to die like she did. If I had been quicker, stronger, more attentive… I don't know. I'm sure there was _something_ I could have done to save her. I refuse to believe that our life plays out like a script, step-by-inevitable-step toward our fate, exactly as it is written. Surely there was _something_ that could have been done?

"Father would have been so proud of her." I said. Carver nodded earnestly in agreement. I wish that the rest of my friends had known Beth; they would have loved her. Beth had always had that effect on the people that had the chance to meet her, they were lucky to have had her in their lives. We all were.

An unnerving chorus bubbled up from the building then, shattering the solemn mood that had settled over us like a shroud. Everyone paused, ears prickling with the indiscernible sound. The noises grew until they were a cacophony of grunts and screeches. It was an appalling sound, but moreso for what we had learnt that it would herald: Darkspawn.

I sighed. It's not like 'more darkspawn' was really a surprising revelation. I mean, I wasn't honestly expecting a horde of puppies to show up.  
>"It is so like the darkspawn to be that inconsiderate. You know, someday I'll visit a place with no ancient evils, horrors, devouring plagues, or insanity." It sounded nice already. I'd take Anders; it'd be like a proper date. "Maybe a beach!"<p>

"I can recommend a few, if you'd like," Isabella purred.

I laughed, "Please do!" Any beach with Isabella's recommendation is bound to be of the nudist variety.

"Hawke, the day you go to the beach is the day an armada of angry demon pirates shows up."

The image rushed into my head in vivid detail. I didn't fancy having to fight Varric's imaginary creatures on a beach, wearing nothing but my personality. His supposition wasn't far from my reality though; I was shopping when the Carta ambushed me for this.

"I've got a bad feeling all of a sudden," I mumbled.

We left the room, breaking into a run as the screeching cries swelled to crescendo.

"Wardens!" I shouted, "Where are they coming from?"

"Straight ahead, Brother." I kept running.

We paused at a broken bridge where our landscape opened up in a panorama viewpoint. I could see through the windows of the adjacent tower where a horde of darkspawn lurched, swarming through the building.

"Mostly hurlocks," Carver's voice was strained. Anders said nothing but his eyes were closed and he pushed his fingers against the bridge of his nose as though holding back a migraine. I did not for one minute envy the Wardens for their extra sense. I thought of it as being able to touch the darkspawn with your mind, which would surely be anything but a pleasant caress.

From our viewpoint, we watched the darkspawn file into a room that was separate from us by only one door, conveniently clustered for our attack. It seemed as though our enemies were always expediently poor at opening doors.

I kicked it down. The thick, rusted hinges whined in protest and a dozen pairs of clouded eyes snapped toward the sound. There was a moment when their bestial cries were silenced, and then they resumed with new vigour and charged. I took off at a sprint to meet them, bellowing a war cry that was a lot more guttural and animalistic than I had intended for it to be. If I were my enemy, I would have been scared. Except that I am me, so I wouldn't be scared of any enemy.

I spied an emissary amidst its brethren, standing strategically to the back of the group. I launched myself at it, spearing my sword straight through its chest with a wet, crunching sound. It was still flailing its arms and muttering incantations that left its mouth in bubbles of black ichor, so I brought my armoured elbow up to its flat face to silence it. There was a crunch as its bones broke, once, twice. The third blow made a flat, packing, sound. Good luck trying to do magic now, Ser emissary!

The creature's body buckled over and I used the motion to slide my sword from it, only to bring it around in a generous arc to meet two hurlocks that had appeared at my back.

The room had a blue aura to it as it filled up with Anders' magic, but I was barely aware of that. I caught both darkspawn across the middle and something exploded in a flock of rubble behind me. Their armour was heavy and unyielding and they barely stumbled. In an instant Isabella was at my side -I would have to ask her one day how she could always do that so spectacularly. It must be magic.

She threw something in the eyes of both hurlocks and leapt up, planting her feet on one's shoulders. Now crouched upon its back, she took advantage of her new reach, stabbing at the multitude of vulnerable areas that had become available. I lunged at the other with my sword, decapitating it before it could regain its eyesight.

Isabella's newest dagger hissed when it bit into the darkspawn flesh, and smoke bubbled up from its wounds, but it was already dead. She moved on.

Soon, the room was filled only with pitted, dismembered and mutilated corpses. The smell of darkspawn blood was thick in the air; not to mention the liberal portion of the stuff that was plastered to my skin and armour, probably in close proximity to my nose. I wondered what my face must look like.

With the fires of our clash sputtering away, we split up to search the adjoining rooms. When we convened again – all except Isabella, who was allowed to take her time because she always returned with the best loot– we had accumulated a pile of a few trinkets, some petty coin and a crown from what Varric assured me was a wholly creepy looking room, but by far the most interesting was a note that Carver had found about Corypheus. I read it aloud.

In essence, it speculated as to what Corypheus actually was, considering the Grey Wardens didn't know of any other darkspawn that behaved similarly. The note expressed the opinion that keeping Corypheus alive would be a good thing, despite the fact that he has 'a strength that would shame any magister.' This just kept sounding better and better.

Everyone seemed to be standing around waiting to glean some new truth from the note, other than that the Grey Wardens had made a reckless, uninformed decision. It pretty much just confirmed everything that we'd so far suspected.

I was suddenly so unbelievably frustrated that everyone could have been so stupid to make this mess in the first place. Even my father, whom I had always idolized, was idiotic enough to talk to demons. How could he? What a bloody hypocrite? That was not the man I remembered.

I walked away from the group; I needed to clear my head. It was incredibly frustrating that we could be so far and still have no idea what we were doing, and my own father's involvement in this mess was damning. Were we really doing a good thing here?

I pulled off my gauntlets and wiped the sweat and blood from my brow. From over my shoulder, I heard a strange muttering. It sounded like Anders, but his words were indiscernible. I didn't turn around; I didn't have the patience for anyone, and I especially didn't want Anders to have to put up with me like this. Wait? What did he say? It almost sounded like: "greater than demon, darkspawn, mage and man.'*****

I turned abruptly to face him, catching his gaze and holding it firmly. He looked almost startled, like he hadn't realized he had spoken aloud.

"What did you say?"

"Uh, I-I think I read that on a note from the Carta hideout. I can't really remember." Why would he only mention this now?

"Do you still have it?" I demanded, Anders was deliberately not looking at me and he fidgeted with his hands. He didn't look like he was going to say anything else. Did he know something more? Why was he withholding information that could save our lives? I seized his coat by both shoulders, "Did it say anything else, Anders? Think! This is important!"

"Easy Hawke," Varric intervened.

Anders' mouth was open just slightly and his body was rigid in my hands. I held him by his coat, against the stone wall and a little off of the ground. My grip was so tight that more of his feathers had pulled out. I could see the distended veins on the back of my hands, the little raised spots where valves sat along them.

I realised with a start what I was doing. There was fear written in Anders' eyes and I could see my own brutality reflected in them. I released him like he had burned me and stepped away quickly, not sure why I had grabbed him in the first place. He looked scared.

I turned away from him, running shaky fingers through my hair to calm myself.

"I'm sorry." Now it was my turn to look away, ashamed. I was still fuming, but I wasn't sure who my anger was directed at. I should probably wear it myself.

Light, tentative fingers wrapped themselves in my hand and I turned to see him smiling at me, "It's fine." His amber eyes were warm and trusting, dissolving my rage, "The note didn't say anything else. I-I can't even remember where I read it. I know it's important, Love. I'm sorry."

"You never have to apologize to me. I… I shouldn't have. I mean, I didn't mean to…" This was the second time that I had taken my frustrations out on him undeservedly on this trip. It had to be the last. He brushed his fingers against my cheek and smiled at me again in that soft, sad way. I was forgiven, as always.

"Boys!" came a mischievous voice from a few rooms away, "I found something." Isabella trilled. Her voice promised excitement and we quickly filed out of the room in her direction. No one said anything else, and frustratingly, I kept walking in silence, wanting to explain myself but never knowing how.

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><p><em><strong>*For anyone who's lost track. This comment is a reference to the second dream that Anders had, and the information that Justice gave him about Corypheus.<strong>_


	18. Chapter 18: Hawke

**Chapter 18: Hawke**

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><p>From the enigmatic tone of Isabella's voice, I was gearing myself up for treasure. What a good little scavenger she was for me! I would definitely have to give her a bigger cut of the takings for this, or maybe I would just have to agree to play diamondback with her again. The former was definitely more appealing; I wasn't sure my pride could handle the inevitable result of another card game with Isabella. Last time, I was so thoroughly laundered and then uninhibitedly hung out to dry. The woman takes no prisoners. I had left the Hanged man that night with empty pockets and a maimed ego, vowing never to bet against Isabella again.<p>

In retrospect, it should have come as no surprise to round a corner only to find her standing coquettishly before _another_ demon prison, with nothing but dust and skeletons at her feet. At least I would be keeping my coin.

This was the third cage we had come across. Maker, how many levels were there? How many cages for how many demons? How could anyone ever think that this was a good idea? Were these pets, was this the Grey Wardens' idea of companionship? I mean, I knew the Order was crazy –even moreso when they became redundant and crazy from loneliness between blights – but… really? What good could this ever hope to accomplish? I wasn't so sure I wanted to hear what my father had to say for himself either.

The golden bars of the prison caged a feminine figure, her form obscured by the rippling wall of light. Still, it was easy to see the familiar shape and stance of a desire demon. From her skull sprouted two perverse barb-like horns and her eyes were as black as sin, piercing through the magical barrier.

It made sense that the demons would become harder to fight the further we went along. When this one stepped lasciviously from her prison, she summoned corpses and skeleton archers with one protracted gesture. I would have kicked the corpses around a bit before releasing the demon, but I had wanted them to stay where I could see them. When my brother and I rushed at her the first time, we had only taken a few steps when time froze completely.

No, wait, things were flashing and exploding around us. There was still the slicing sound of steel flying through the air, turning flesh to ribbons, Bianca's triple thud sounded off amidst cries and shrieks. Time was still marching onwards; it was only me and Carver who had stopped. I forced my neck down, sweating from the effort of this infinitesimal movement. I saw streaks of light racing along tracings on the floor; intricate lines drawing complex patterns that wove back and forth, into and around one another, branching and merging forever. We were caught in a circular sigil: a glyph of paralysis.

The demon laughed, cold and wicked, and then she was gone. Frozen as I was, I felt the wind pick up and turn hot behind me, but I couldn't turn my head to look. When the spell broke, skeleton archers were stumbling into our enclave from a quickly escalating storm of wind and fire that seemed to fill and consume the entire cavern. What clothes they still wore were burning along with their wooden longbows. They were practically running into our swords in their frantic bids to escape the firestorm. Carver rushed out of the enclave. Idiot. He would burn alive.

I made to dive out after him, but a torrent of flames burst past. The fire swirled and roared in the larger room. I was somewhat sheltered in the adjunct space that used to be the demon's prison; I just prayed that Carver had made it to safety.

I hoped the fire belonged to Anders. He hated fire, said that it was too hard to control. But it sure was making quick and malodorous work of the corpses and skeletons. I could see that my skin was raw and dry, but I couldn't feel it yet. The same way I knew my body was mottled with bruises even though they didn't hurt right now, blue turned purple turned soft and yellow with time. I looked like old fruit the way my body was coloured and collapsible in places.

The air was oppressively hot, and there was a fierce wind that had turned the firestorm into more of a fire-hurricane. I hoped Anders knew what he was doing. I turned my face against the stone wall as another gust of flame rushed past.

I couldn't see the desire demon anymore, but I couldn't have done anything about her anyway. Even if I hadn't been trapped by the fire, I was incapacitated. I could feel that something was not right. There was something wrong with me. I felt drained, weakened. Like I could barely hold my sword let alone swing it at something. I knew that it wasn't caused by my injuries either; I've fought with far worse.

It was a Maker-damned hex cast by that purple demon bitch.

And then she was back in front of me, body aflame with blue instead of the roaring orange that consumed everything outside of this little sheltered chamber. I heaved my sword. My arms felt like they might have just pulled right out of their sockets with the weight of the weapon, but I managed to lug it up, up, up. She was still distracted, beating at the flames on her body. She probably presumed that I would be useless in this pseudo-weakness. I let my blade fall, putting my weight into it as it came crashing down.

She jumped back, but only just in time. It looked as though my sword had unzipped the front of her body with a long, thin cut that ran the entire length of her: mid-sagittal, like a cadaver. Ribbons of blood streamed down her front and she shrieked when she realized what I had done.

Then she pulled her arms back, fingers outstretched, and the air turned cold despite the fire around us. I saw coils of purple magic dancing around her black fingertips. Her eyes fixed me with that cold, inhumane gaze, cutting with their indignation. She drew her body back, about to throw her magic at me with both hands. I reacted instinctively, lunging forward through a haze of weakness and throwing my body at her, pushing us both over and onto the ground.

It was more like a collapse than an attack, but by chance I had managed to bring my greatsword across between us. It pierced between a gap in my armour plating, slicing into the skin of my forearm; but the demon was clad in only thin robes, so I pushed all my weight down onto her, making myself as heavy as I could. The sword between us slid, painfully slow, deeper and deeper into her body, and into my arm. I pushed through the stinging pain, she was far worse off than me.

The demon now wore a heavy cross of traversing cuts and blood pooled up from them, sticky and hot. With a gasp, her last breath exited her. Our faces were so close I think that I might have breathed in her exhalation. But she was not a person, and I am not even sure if she really breathed or if the rise and fall of her chest was just an imitation of the life that she coveted.

I looked up when my father's voice cut through the new silence, "I've bought our freedom Leandra. We can go home now. Us and the baby, we'll be together. I hope it takes after you love, I would wish this magic on no one. May they never learn what I've done here."

I could see the back of my father's spirit and so I limped to my feet and over to stand beside him. The fire was down to a few piles of smouldering debris and bones now. What did he mean 'bought our freedom'? Was I to understand that he played none of his role willingly? I felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. I was still heavy with weakness, only now it was all mine. Carver's face was blackened with soot and dampened with thought as he gazed up at the transient figure. He appeared miraculously unharmed.

"Father didn't want a child with magic? He got that one wrong," he said.

Everyone was materializing around me now, staggering into view from shrouds of black smoke that smelt like charcoal. Anders was limping worse than I was, an arrow jutted from just above his left knee and there were shallow, raw grazes all over his body where arrows must have rushed by, just barely missing him. Those were the kind of wounds that would sting later. What struck me most about his appearance was his expression. Shock and disgust made ugly lines around his mouth and forehead.

"Like we've seen in here," he retorted angrily, "what my kind have to deal with every day is just beyond you!" and I thought their relationship had progressed.

Carver looked taken aback and quickly made to rectify his faux pas, "That does loom heavy, but everything's in the shadow of the blight."

Anders was outraged now, "You think centuries of oppression and subjugation aren't as important? The blight affects all of Thedas; the Chantry only causes the suffering of a silent minority! Does that really make it any better?"

Comparing the Chantry to the Blight was a stretch, even for Anders, but I could be impartial; this argument needed to be diffused. "Good points, both of you. Just remember Anders, Carver's not a Templar, he's my brother and a Grey Warden. And Carver, watch it. For Andraste's sake, remember Beth."

"Maker," Carver exhaled "it's like we're back in Lothering, sniping for no reason," he paused in contemplation. "You know, I did sometimes worry for Beth. She just wanted to be 'normal', as if we made a good case for it."

"More like 'abnormal'" I laughed.

It was hard to take Carver seriously with all the black ichor staining his face and armour, but he was talking seriously now. **"**As far as we get, they're still gone." He sighed, "I'm tired of losing things."

I was tired of losing things too. I looked over at Anders' soot and blood stained face, and then moved my eyes over each of my bedraggled friends in turn.

Carver continued, "I miss her, Father and Mother, even you sometimes. Gamlen can go suck an egg."

"I'll let him know." This moment called for a little bit more emotion than I was used to putting into conversations with Carver. It seemed as though we had shared more awkward bonding moments on this one trip than we ever had in our life together. I tried to muster some sincerity into my tone, "Er, I guess it's like that sometimes for me too... about you, and our family." My phrase sounded clumsy and insincere to my ears, so I clapped him on the shoulder for good measure. I did mean what I had said, after all.

"Come on." He said with grim determination, "This mess down here, it's not following us out." I couldn't have agreed more.

"Urgh," Isabella intoned. She was brushing blood and soot from her white corset, now more of a healthy, muddy grey after however many days we had spent here. She coughed and spat, thick and black onto the floor, completely unladylike, "There are corpse ashes in my lungs right now, Anders! It's disgusting!" Her voice was scratchy and weak. She spat again.

"Blondie, I'm going to encourage you to stick to what you know from now on. No fire." Varric took a swig from his waterskin, only to gag and heave up a torrent of sticky dust.

Anders was panting heavily, bent over with his hands resting on his knees. He nodded his agreement, "Never again," he rasped. "I used to do that back in Amaranthine. Now I remember why I stopped. I don't have a breath of mana left in me."

I could feel it too. The ashes were in my nose and my eyes and on my tongue. More were sailing down on top of us as the air settled, settling like grey in our hair. "Let's get out of here."

It took a considerable effort to haul our sorry asses into the next room where we practically collapsed in a heap of exhaustion. I felt thirstier than I ever had in my life. My shoulder was throbbing and stiff. When I took off my breastplate and shoulder guards, I saw a broken off arrow shaft had made its way through my defences. Just below it, there was the gash that I had sustained by driving my blade bodily into the desire demon.

Anders pulled out his bag of poultices. We all carried them on our belts, but he stockpiled them until he could carry no more. We busied ourselves slathering the thick mixtures onto our wounds. Varric had fared the best, you could even say he had benefitted some in that the heat from the fire had dried the dampness that the fog had weighted his coat with. He helped pull the arrows from Anders' leg and my arm. I didn't want Anders to heal in his present state, so we taped closed the red slit in my arm.

There was no fog in this room, no torches; but light shafted down from the broken ceiling, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air as they drifted across its path, turning white and then disappearing again as though they were never there. The light almost looked like a concrete thing, the way it carved its straight form through the shadowy room.

I liked the way the tree roots crawled along the walls, the way they had pulled open the ceiling where they hung now in thick, tapering tendrils that seemed to have sprung from the light source. They were reaching, as though trying desperately to find some nutrients in this stone prison. I wondered that I hadn't seen any plants on the upper levels, yet here there were roots. They must run deep indeed.

Carver cursed under his breath and I tore my gaze from the ceiling. "Maker dammit!" he spat.

"What is it Junior?"

"We need to hurry."

_More_ darkspawn? Maker, they were a never-ending tide. This wasn't even proper Deep Roads. We all heaved ourselves to our feet. I could really feel my muscles now; they were coiled and aching just from sitting still for a few moments. Isabella shot a scathing look in my direction, clearly wishing she hadn't agreed to this particular quest, and blaming me for misinforming her. I had honestly thought that this would be a straightforward job: Kill the Carta dwarves, loot their bodies, and as an added bonus, explore and steal from an ancient Grey Warden fortress! We were never so lucky.

"No wait, Love!" Anders grabbed my wrist, and put his other hand to my chest. The muscles of his jaw tightened and concentration marred his features as he forced himself to cast. He began muttering under his breath.

"No!" I jumped back from his hand, "Save your mana."

He rolled his eyes stubbornly and finished his incantation with a tap of his staff. I felt a wave of restorative energy flush over me. "There would be no surer way to kill us all than to let you face a horde of darkspawn injured," he argued.

I conceded the point. If we started off the battle in better form, we were more likely to finish it that way, and if darkspawn were approaching, then we needed to be ready to defend ourselves, including our spent healer. Besides, it didn't look like I had a choice in the matter.

He moved on to Isabella, who was trying to hide a limp. Stealth and speed were her greatest weapons, but still she tried to brush him off. Adamantly, he healed her as he had done with me. Relief relaxed over her fine features. I could see Anders' skin was now an alarming shade of grey, and sweat poured off of his forehead. He blinked back his weakness.

"Carver?" Anders offered.

"I'm fine. Let's go." Anders' eyes became distant for a second and his face twisted momentarily with what looked like pain. He resurfaced with a resolute nod. The darkspawn must be getting close, and Anders was probably too weak to do any more healing now anyway.

"For future reference Hawke," Isabella began, "I prefer towers full of coin to towers full of darkspawn."

"Duly noted."

We set off again, quicker this time, doubling back to avoid the darkspawn. They must have known we were here, but I hoped they were crazed enough with Corypheus' false calls that they would only muster a quick search before dismissing us as a minor threat.

As we kept on, I noticed that the tension in my brother's stance slackened. We must be getting out of harm's way, but I didn't let myself feel relieved. How long since we had slept? It was near impossible to measure time here, but we must have been walking and fighting for at least a whole day and night. What would happen when the darkspawn caught up to us and we were too exhausted to do anything but surrender? We were moving forward again, passing the chamber where Anders' firestorm had left scorch marks on the walls and piles of ash all over the floor.

I was trusting blindly that we wouldn't walk into a horde of darkspawn, or that I would at least have fair warning. So I kept leading, even though my muscles burned and my veins felt like they were circulating acid. I had no other choice.


	19. Chapter 19: Hawke

**Chapter 19: Hawke**

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><p>Carver muscled up beside me. Peripherally, I could see how awkwardly he held himself, with his hands too close to his body, which was angled slightly toward me. Clearly he wanted to talk, but if it were anything desperately important, he would have opened his mouth already. I just wasn't in the mood to play conversation starter. Still, Carver kept glancing across, pretending like he was looking straight past me in careful study of the cavernous wall, when really he was waiting for me to meet his eyes, or ask him what he wanted. Carver's social skills were about as well developed as my sword's.<p>

So I kept moving, each slab of stone disappearing satisfactorily behind me. I was ready to leave this place, and I wasn't going to waste any time on small-talk. The Deep Roads were finally starting to get to me. I can handle adversity, in fact I usually welcome it, but now it's just getting repetitive and uncomfortable.

My undershirt was so sweat and blood stained by now I might as well have been wearing nothing but a layer of filth underneath my armor. I smelled like death. Most of the stench was probably coming from my hair, which seemed to consume blood with an astonishing appetite. Blood has a way of disappearing into its black tangles, I didn't think it was very visible, but I could feel it. I knew it would take my hair weeks of careful styling to remember how to sit how I like it, all flicky and cool at the front.

I ran my hand through my hair unconsciously, immediately pulling my fingers away with jolting realization at what I'd touched. Great, now my fingers were sticky and oily as well. I looked around for something to wipe my hand on. My armor was out of the question, and I would probably contract the taint if I touched the walls of this place. Too late, Carver had caught my eye and he opened his mouth to speak.

"So…" he began, and I nearly told him to shut up then and there. No conversation that started that way was worth having, "how's everyone back in Kirkwall?"

And yet, he never writes.

"You mean Uncle Gamlen? Carver I didn't know you cared!" I feigned an affectionate punch, discreetly cleaning my hand on his tunic.

"Maker, no I don't! I meant our friends."

_Our _friends? Carver's involvement with _my_ friends had always appeared superficial at best. It always seemed as though being with us was a brotherly obligation, as thought he was above fraternizing with my riff-raff, like he could make cooler friends for himself if he ever cared enough to try. Or maybe we were kids again and I was being possessive. I suppose the words were a small comfort, that maybe I hadn't made his time in Kirkwall quite as bad as he had made it out to be.

"Well, let's see… Aveline and Donnic are finally engaged."

"So she found her balls after all!"

"Ha!" I laughed at the memory of her and Donnic's first 'date,' "No, he asked her. Can you believe? She'll never be able to recover her masculinity in my eyes. That man has a lot more backbone than I gave him credit for. I guess he'd need it, to handle Aveline."

"And the others?" Carver didn't really want to hear about Aveline, those two had never gotten along. I knew who he was really asking about, but until he found the courage to ask, I was going to hold onto it.

"Alright. Err, well…" I began, "Sebastian is as much of a prat as he ever was, still won't lift a finger to help himself. Unless it's in prayer but" I snorted derisively, "It hasn't helped him in the past. Fenris is a free man, ripped the heart right out of his former master. It was strangely satisfying to watch; thank the Maker I left Anders at home for _that_ one."

He laughed awkwardly and then hesitated for a moment, "How's Merrill?"

"Ah, I see." I said, as though this information was in any way compromising. I gave him my knowing look, which his baby blue eyes couldn't meet. The creeping flush on his pale skin was enough of a response.

"There's nothing to see," he defended.

"Oh, there's plenty." I laughed as his blush deepened, but my humour quickly died as I thought of Merrill and her predicament. I didn't like that mirror. I still felt terrible for the whole Arulin'Holm thing; I probably shouldn't have given it to her, but I just had to, for trust.

It was no secret that her methods were not totally sanctified, but I wished she would change her approach. It just hurt that she was so set on blood magic as the only possible solution. If she would just reconsider her options, maybe I could help her find a better way to fix it. Merrill was trying to dredge up the past, but I wasn't sure if she was searching for something that was better left buried. I think she will do the right thing in the end, but she walks a fine line and I can't help but be concerned. "She's confused, I think. Maybe you should write? I'm sure she'd love to hear from you."

Carver looked embarrassed. He had never talked to me about his girlfriends, if he ever had any. It actually really surprised me that Merrill was even his type, but I suppose it made sense. I think he felt left out as a kid because Beth and I would always talk about boys. I wonder what she would have thought of Anders? She probably would have fought me for him, but I would have won. I always win.

My feet had taken me forward into a dim-lit chamber, and Carver fell back behind me with the others. I was initially unperturbed by the room, It looked much like every other one that we had been in. It smelt the same too, like dust and decomposition. The problem, as I saw it, was that there was no way out besides the doorway where I hesitated now. That is, unless we climbed out of a window and scaled precariously along the edge of the tower, dangling by our fingertips above the seemingly bottomless chasm. No, there was almost definitely an end to the chasm, probably a particularly sharp and point one. I would take my chances with this room.

There was only one other doorway, and its threshold was barred completely by a huge, ram-like shield that sat squarely where the door should have been, its front surface decorated crudely with wicked looking barbs and spikes.

"Huh," Varric said from my elbow, "I could have sworn we checked all the other passages."

"We did," Carver huffed.

"Don't worry. The five of us can easily move that. I-" The shield's metal glinted suspiciously, as though it had shifted just slightly and I left my sentence hanging in the air, scrutinizing the spiked metal with unblinking eyes, heart beating a tattoo on my chest. Something was wrong. I could hear the high pitch of Isabella's voice chattering away to my left, but I had tuned her out in my concentration. The shield shifted again. This time I was sure it wasn't a trick of the light. It was lining us up.

"Move!" I roared at my friends, just as the great metal shield charged out toward us, pushed by an enormous, troll-like genlock. I dove to the side, hearing the thud of the shield making contact with something. There was a great crack as the genlock's momentum carried it crashing into the wall.

I pulled myself up from the floor and lunged out into the genlock's eye line, "Get behind him, Isabella. I'll distract." And to the darkspawn, I taunted, "You're mine!" The beast snorted and spat at me with ferocious rage. It pulled at its shield, lugging it from the wall that it had become embedded in. Isabella obeyed, shattering a flask and disappearing into its fleeting smoke screen.

"Oh, look, he's brought friends," Varric called across the battlefield, his statement was punctuated by the Bianca's rapid fire. Sure enough, a small group of hurlocks had revealed themselves, but they were already fighting through a lightning storm, trying to avoid the burning crossbow bolts that rained down on them from the sky.

In the next instant, Isabella was behind the shielded genlock, slashing and stabbing deep into its spine, twisting and digging and tearing at its tissues and bone. When the darkspawn finally freed its enormous shield from the wall, it heaved it around, creating a blockade between us; or alternatively, a thick, bone crushing weapon. Isabella danced around the creature, keeping always at its back.

The genlock's bestial eyes narrowed at me and it slammed its shield to the ground with such force that the whole room shook. Varric and Isabella were knocked to the ground. I crouched, readying myself to dive to the side. As though on cue, the beast rushed forward using its spiked shield as a battering ram. I leapt away, sidestepping its charge and throwing my sword out to the side to slice deep along its flank. It thrust past me, slamming into the far wall where the shield's spikes stuck resolutely into the masonry.

Carver dove in to join Isabella at the darkspawn's back while it was stuck against the wall. Dark ichor poured from its wounds and it thrashed its meaty forearms at them both. Its wounds were not inconsiderable, but it didn't slow down.

I took the opportunity to attack the genlock. I needed it to keep its attention on me rather than Isabella or my brother. I climbed the shield and thrust my sword into its neck, further aggravating it with a cry, but it heaved its body at the last second and the point of my sword drove deep into its shoulder instead. It hit back with one of its thick arms, catching me under the chin with an enormous fist. There was a sickening crunch in my mouth as the blow connected. My head was thrown backwards and I tasted hot, metallic blood. The darkspawn resumed its struggle to free the shield with both hands. I was close enough to see that it was succeeding and leapt back from its reach.

With a heave, the genlock ripped its shield from the wall and spun around with surprising agility. Isabella rolled out of the way just in time, and as the shield fell vividly between Carver and the genlock, everything slowed down. I roared at the beast, begging it to change course and come at me, but I could only watch as Carver's eyes widened with slow realization. The darkspawn barrelled straight into him with such force that his body crumped against the shield. I imagine the impact would have made a terrible sound, but my ears were filled with a strange rushing of wind that turned every noise hollow and distant. The shield's spikes drove into his armour, and he was picked up and carried along until he was thrown against the far wall, landing in a limp heap on the ground.

His body was twisted and pummelled and he didn't move to get up. I found Anders on the battlefield, he was impossible to miss, standing amidst a swirl of blue energies. His skin was oddly luminous and his concentration looked like it was strained to breaking point. Two feral arrows jutted from his shoulder and arm and the back of his robes were torn, revealing fresh bruises that were already blossoming a purplish-red. That must have been from the genlock's first attack.

He fought through these injuries with a fervent intensity, hitting the hurlocks with blast after blast of lightning and cold. His enemies were trying to surround him, but every time they got too close, he thrust the blade of his staff brutally into their bodies, intensifying the blow with an electric charge.

His attack was faster than before, inexhaustible. But why didn't he heal Carver? Or himself?

"Much more of this and all I'll be able to do is bullshit them," Varric bellowed from the corner of the room. Three hurlocks were enclosing him against the wall and Bianca's shots were sounding off in a desperately staccato.

I ran, dodging and diving from the arrows of another darkspawn. I rushed past Anders, screaming at him. "Heal my brother! Do it!" He didn't look at me. He was too busy with his own attack. What had gotten into him? I slashed my blade across two of the hurlocks that were threatening Varric and carried my swing around to completion, landing the end of my sword in the neck of the third. Ichor spurted back at me and I grit my teeth.

Calm down, Hawke. Anders would never let your brother die. Carver's fine, just passed out… hopefully. But why did Anders keep attacking, why didn't he use his mana on Carver? Maker, please let him be alright.*****

Varric had extricated himself from the corner and was running on stout legs away from the melee attackers.

I turned abruptly from my targets, to see that thick, spiked shield staring straight at me. I blinked, frozen for a long second, and then my reflexes kicked in and I threw myself from the corner. The genlock drove the shield against the wall with all its weight and the two remaining hurlocks that I had been fighting were crushed. The shield pushed so far into the wall that the stone buckled, carving out an indentation for it and the broken bodies of the darkspawn.

Behind me, Anders screamed savagely. Electric blue light rippled over his skin as he pounded his staff into the ground, sending a bolt of arcing lightning into the genlock. It hit the darkspawn in its broad back and rippled out to the metal shield. Ferociously, Anders pushed more and more power into the current. He held it for too long, even after the genlock was obviously dead. Its corpse was just burnt flesh, searing like charcoal in my nostrils. Coils of smoke were rising from the lightning's point of entry. Anders' feral war cry ended with a grunt as he broke the flow of electricity.

I sprinted over to where Carver lay against the wall. Putting my fingers to his neck, I waited a dreadful second before I felt the distinctive twitch of his life pulsing on. It was a strong, steady beat. I had just enough time to pull an injury kit from my pack and press a pad of gauze to his head wound, when more shrieking cries reached my ears.

Already, a group of four genlocks were loping into the room, supporting their heavy bodies with thick forearms. I could do no more for Carver, but the darkspawn would be sorry for hurting my brother. I charged at them, roaring. I wanted to use all of my frustration to decimate these new opponents.

But Anders acted first. He was enraged, throwing magic wildly at the approaching darkspawn, unleashing shockwaves of an azure and black energy that I had never seen him use before. The magic rolled out from him, burning the darkspawn from the inside out. It was too close to me. I jumped back a step and bellowed, calling my prey to me instead, but the genlocks were falling in pitiful heaps on the floor before Anders, his power engulfing them. I saw a shadow flicker behind his amber eyes, cold and hard now in rage.

For the first time since we had met, I was afraid of him. Not afraid _for_ him, that happened all the time. But the way his eyes burned right now… his seemingly inexhaustible power rushed out from him, fuelled by a savage reprisal. I realized that I did not want to get in his way now. He was terrifying.

I could see Isabella and Varric on my periphery, keeping their distance, picking off the leftover archers with ease. Then it was over, and the flames of Anders' outburst flickered and subsided. Isabella moved in and thrust her dagger efficiently into the necks of each beast in turn. I ran back to my brother. He was still breathing but unconscious, just as I had left him.

"What was that, Anders!" I demanded, "Why didn't you heal him?" Carver groaned in unconscious affirmation. I had known Anders could be unstable at times, but he was still a healer, and a damn good one. This was different, it just wasn't him.

Anders was panting heavily with his back slumped against the wall now. He blinked rapidly and his eyes were soft and warm again, but dazed, as though he were about to faint. "I-I'm sorry Garrett. Is he alright?" The arrows still jutted painfully from his body; their design was simple and crude but no less effective.

"I don't know that!" I snapped, "_You_ know that. _You_ are the healer, Anders! It is _your job_ to protect us while _we_ fight!" I crouched next to Carver and searched him for injuries. As well as the wound on the back of his head, his chest felt oddly malleable. His hair was matted with his own bright red blood and he groaned again when my fingers wandered too near to its source. "He's alive. Just hurry." I could hear the exasperation in my tone. I couldn't rightly expect Anders to be able to heal when pitted with arrows but I wished they would move faster. I just needed to know that Carver would be okay.

"Give us a second, Hawke" Varric and Isabella were on Anders' either side. Varric braced Anders' shoulder against the wall as Isabella grasped the arrow firmly.

"Ready? On three. One, two," she wrenched the arrow free and Anders grunted with pain and shock. She smiled slyly, "three."

She discarded the arrow, and rested her hand on Anders lap, "I suppose that trick's not going to work again, is it?" she grinned wickedly, stealthily wrapping her fingers firmly around the shaft of the second arrow.

"No, it- Ngh!" he gasped loudly as she ripped it out brutally. Its barbs were cruel and they had torn his flesh to messy red tissue.

"You alright Blondie?" Varried asked ostensibly, "Let's get Junior seen to."

Ander's nodded and took a second to swallow a cocktail of health poultice and lyrium potion. Leaning forward, he returned his weight to his feet and strode carefully over to where Carver still lay. He let his graceful hands rest against Carver's forehead and reached out to let his magic envelop him. Watching him, I hesitated for a moment. Anders was acting normally now, but what if he… lost control while healing Carver? I pushed away those unbidden thoughts.

"Concussion and broken ribs; there's a lot of bruising around the pelvis but it's intact, thankfully." Healing magic surged into Carver and he began coughing and struggling to sit upright, blinking madly. I exhaled my relief. He was fine. They were both fine. I thumped my brother hard on the back but quickly turned my gesture into a gentle pat when he winced and cringed away from my hand.

"Oh, Maker" he coughed, putting his hand to the back of his head to feel around.

"I know what you mean, brother." I could feel the tenderness in my mouth from where the Hurlock had landed a punch. I searched around my mouth, tasting to find the source of the metallic blood that was everywhere in there. My whole jaw felt numb and loose. I nudged a molar with the tip of my tongue and it lifted up with all its roots, separated from my bleeding gums. I keep tonguing that tooth. It hurt less each time and it lifted a little further. It would probably really hurt to chew though. I was never one to leave something like that alone.

I grasped the broken piece of bone with my thumb and forefinger and wrenched it from my mouth with a wet, crunching sound that sounded a lot louder because it was coming from inside my own mouth.

Anders fussed over Carver as best he could. I watched them closely, expecting Anders to do _something _unusual, but he was acting so normal, poking and prodding at Carver's injuries with his concerned healer facial expression.

Varric took the opportunity to sidle up to me.

I spat the molar out and rolled it in my dirty palm. It was white, like the cracks of my skin that peeked through the layers of darkspawn blood.

"You know," I sighed, "until now, I could always say 'at least I still have my looks.' Now what is there? "

Varric's response was a humourless laugh, lacking the compliment that I was clearly fishing for. I dropped my tooth on the floor and it rolled away to disappear, masquerading as just another piece of rock or bone. It wasn't as though I would have any other use for it now.

"What was that?" he whispered confidentially. Anders' back was still turned toward us as he went to work dressing Carver's head wound.

"You'll have to be more specific," I feigned ignorance.

"Oh don't give me that, Hawke. You know what I mean! You know that guy who just single-handedly killed a horde of darkspawn? That wasn't Anders."

"He's a Warden," I supplied.

Varric sighed, "I know it's none of my business Hawke, but… do remember what I said to you, when you two first got together?"

How could I forget those words: _Maybe, just maybe, getting involved with the possessed mage might be dangerous._

I brushed off his concern as I had the last time, my dismissal obvious, "and do you remember my reply?"

_I love him._

"Alright, alright. I can take a hint," he looked as though he might walk away then without saying anything else, I fervently hoped that he would anyway. But as he turned away, under his breath he added, "looked more like Justice to me."

I clenched my teeth. That was exactly what I was afraid of.

* * *

><p><strong><em>*Anders can't turn on his pancreas (panacea) because he is currently in Vengeance mode. 99% sure this is a game mechanic.<em>**


	20. Chapter 20: Hawke

**Chapter 20: Hawke**

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><p>We needed to rest, but sleep was impossible. We all knew it, and yet we tried anyway.<p>

My nerves felt like they were livewires, firing off impulses randomly. Synapse after synapse of signals ignored. My heart pounded a staccato rhythm against my ribcage. I wanted to move. I wanted to fight. I couldn't just sit here and wait for something to find us.

A thin, watery light was seeping in through a crack in the wall. I thought vaguely that it would be day time now, maybe our fifth one spent trapped here. It felt like longer. None of the sun's warmth reached this deep into the fortress. Down here, 'day' it lost all of its meaning and connotations. All it was to us now was the time when we moved forward, and night was rest, but we couldn't rest here.

Carver did nothing but pace. His unease radiated outward to the rest of us like a cancer in metastasis. Clearly, he thought this was a waste of time, but I couldn't take this from them. I couldn't keep pushing us forward when we were so physically wasted. It was not my decision to make. These are my friends, I owe them more than that.

Isabella might have caught a few moments of sleep, but it was fitful and probably only left her feeling tired and sluggish. Still, it was something. When she woke on edge saying she couldn't sleep any more, we decided there was nothing to be done except move on.

It was a relief. I wanted out, to be rid of this place forever. I wanted to greedily suck in all of the world's fresh air, soak up the warm light of the surface. I wanted to get away from the darkness and the taint. I wanted Anders back to normal again.

I regretted moving almost as soon as we had decided to. Obviously, the darkspawn were still patrolling, or doing whatever they did when they stumbled across groups of adventurers in their domain. We just _had to_ stumble upon another shield-bearing genlock, accompanied by his good friend, Mr Ogre. Could this day get any worse?

We dove into the familiar motions of battle, more practiced with this new enemy, and still haunted by the old. I felt a strange sensation wash over me and on my periphery I could see that each of my companions had been enveloped in a shimmering glow. Haste. Perfect.

Anders attacked first, and the Ogre froze, petrified like a great, menacing, stone statue, so we could make the genlock our priority.

As it dove toward me, I stepped away with unnatural speed and pushed my sword into it like I had with the last, using the creature's own momentum to deepen my infliction.

The darkspawn's back was already dotted with crossbow bolts as it rushed past me. I watched it crush itself against the wall. Isabella played her usual role, as she did it so well, but this time a lifeward followed her around as she dodged and dived around the genlock. The creature roared with indignation.

I dodged another unexpected ram from my enemy, landing badly on my ankle. A barb of pain shot through my heel and all the way up to my hip. The genlock dove forward in a great rush exactly where I had been before.

As it swept past me I thrust my greatsword into its flank again, and this time its trajectory wavered as it staggered to the other side of the room. It went crashing into the wall and Isabella and I leapt on the beast, stabbing and slashing. It spasmed beneath us, unable to rise and attack, it had let go of its mammoth shield, and it pawed at us in desperation.

With a final thrust from Isabella's dagger, the creature heaved and snorted and then it didn't move again.

I looked up and Carver was standing before the Ogre, now free of its rock prison, by himself. It was like they were alone in a vast, hollow arena together. I couldn't move.

The memory of my sister's death pushed itself bitterly to the absolute front of my mind. I saw Carver throw himself at the Ogre exactly as she had, trying to fight it on his own. I was struck dumb, watching while my brother stood facing my sister's killer alone.

I saw the ogre grab his entire body in one hand and lift him easily into the air like he was nothing. Then it smashed him down, pounding his body time after time against the unforgiving stone floor, over and over again until he was nothing more than limbs and blood held together in a crumpled suit of armour. Then the ogre threw him away over its shoulder as though he were a toy that had been spent.

But that was Bethany, not Carver. When Carver faced the beast, he was ready. He pushed his sword through its mouth when it roared at him, thrusting the blade up and into its brain. Its tortured cry resounded over the fortress; it grated on my senses.

The ogre was thrashing around, but Carver's grip was steady. As it fell backwards, my brother moved so he was standing on its chest. Making sure that it was dead, he pulled his sword out and pushed it in again, trying to kill that same memory that haunted me now.

And then I felt a wave of icy, healing energies wash over me, and blue light tinged my vision again. My leg felt instantly better and I felt all the tiny scrapes and bruises over my body sighing in relief and repair. The relief was profound and penetrated on multiple levels.

Where the ogre's corpse had fallen, the way forward was revealed, and it glowed with the green illumination that was singular to this prison's seals. In the centre of the room ahead, I saw the dais of the seal, and projecting up from its base was the vague, transient shadow of a pride demon, only just visible if you knew what to look for.

Remembering the power that the seal held, I approached it warily, feeling the flutter of potential that seemed to buzz through me. Tiny hairs all over my body stood up in anticipation. I positioned my feet in the centre of the glowing lines of the dais' sigil. The room was so silent that the echo of my footsteps seemed to resonate off of the walls.

I felt the pull of my own energy through my key as though it was being sucked into a void, and then the connection was severed jarringly. This time, when the pride demon appeared before me, I remained on my feet, so close to it that I could feel the heat from its molten skin radiating out at me.

I reacted on instinct, doing what I did best, and with one powerful lurch, I cut the demon's leg clean off. Its fiery lifeblood turned my armour searing hot where they touched. Worse came afterwards, as, unbalanced, the pride demon tottered and its full weight came crashing down atop me.

I scrambled away. Now I knew how Varric had felt. The skin of my leg felt blistered where the creature's blood had spilled over me and I hastily undid the ties of my greaves to escape the hot metal.

Spinning, I saw a dozen other pride demons materializing around the edges of the room, which was now looking increasingly like a proving grounds. All lifted their taloned wings in a gesture to precede what surely would have been a formidable attack. I pitched myself toward the nearest, but as my sword touched its skin, neither hot nor cold; its body dissolved into ashes, and its form, once so corporeal, collapsed into nothing.

I turned to see the same thing happening all around the room. Each of my companions were staring down their own pride demon, and with their first strikes, the demon would vanish. Only Varric's didn't go down, and as I studied it, I saw its motions were sloppier than the distractions that it had created, and it stumbled on one stump-of-a-leg that leaked and spat demonic blood.

"You blighted, ball-less, whelp; you want a piece of me?" Varric provoked, "Come here and give Bianca a kiss!" His conviction was so sincere that I almost left him to his fight. Varric was good, but not that good. If he was fighting a pride demon on his own, he had better not be provoking its attacks. I ran forward, gesturing at him to get the void out of its range.

The demon's skin lit up with crackles of green light. The colour looked like it was draining into the creature's hand, collecting in a well of flickering power that grew and grew as the vibrant lines on its skin were emptied. Between five malevolent claws, a flaming ball of magic was soon gathered. The demon threw this attack at me, but I was too late to dodge. Most of the energies rolled over my armour, but what I felt was terrible. It was so cold that it burnt, and set my skin on fire with a mad prickling, like insects crawling and biting all over.

But we knew its identity now, and it would not escape into anonymity among the fake pride demons that still stood around, pawing ineffectively at us all like ghosts. A cage of draining magic encased the demon now, pushing in with blue light that seemed to crush and confuse it. The demon fought to break free of the prison that Anders had created, pulling at its mana and distracting it from our blades. Finally, the fight was drained from it, and it fell, defeated. I finished its existence with my sword through its chest, wondering idly if it had a heart circulating its demonic lifeblood at all. I felt like I was killing an idea.

I wiped my blade against the demon's strange flesh, cleaning its surface on the creature's even stranger blood. I rested my hands on my knees and panted to catch my breath. The stacked days and nights of fighting were finally wearing down on me, but I felt a strange sensation plucking through the strung nerves of my body, keeping me alert, and I realised that I was standing upon the dais in the centre of the room. Its sigil glowed eerily around me, as did the orbs atop each runed pillar. As the pillars brightened, I thought I hear a hissing whisper rising.

The power that I had fed into it to release the demon was tickling my senses now, waiting to be reabsorbed. I obliged, touching the key to my chosen pillar. My weapon felt alive then, pulsing to the beat of my heart. The chamber flashed white, concentrated where my weapon connected with the seal. Energy flooded into me, its flow gradually tapering off as darkness submerged the room once again. I was full with it, drunk on the feeling.

I turned, smiling stupidly at my companions. Each of them had been thrown across the room, propelled by the reaction between the seal and its key, catalysed by my Father's blood in my veins. My friends were scattered haphazardly, in varying states of composure.

"Let's go," I said, proud of myself for remaining on my feet in the centre of the phenomenon.

And then, my eyes fell on Anders and I knew everything wasn't alright. He didn't help himself up like the others. He remained huddled on the ground. His robes were torn and blood was seeping through in places. He held one arm crumpled to his chest.

Varric limped toward him, "Come on Blondie, we're finished now."

But Anders didn't move to respond. His body rocked forward and his palms clenched. The pieces of my brain clicked suddenly and horrifically. No. Not again.

"Blondie?" Varric worried.

I was on my knees next to Anders in an instant, rubbing a response out of his hands, careful of the one that he guarded. His eyes were glassy and distant, he didn't give a single sign that he knew I was there.

"Anders?" I gasped.

"Lovely. A mage gone mad is all we need right now." I shot Carver a scathing look and he cowed.

"What's wrong with him?" Isabella had crouched on Anders' other side and she was rubbing his back in soothing circles.

"It's just his injuries." Anyone with eyes could see how blatant my cover was, but I felt a compelling need to protect Anders, at least until he could speak for himself.

Varric fixed me with an earnest gaze that said 'now is not the time to keep secrets'. "Hawke, has this happened before?"

I couldn't answer for a protracted minute, and when I did my voice cracked, "Yes… Yes, he's been like this once before."

Anders' grabbed at my arm, his chewed fingernails digging in sharply. I didn't mind, at least he would know I was still with him. His skin was unusually warm against mine and sweat dripped from the tip of his long nose.

"Garrett," Varric said sternly, demanding my attention, "Did it happen recently, here in the Deep Roads?"

I swallowed hard and nodded, "Yesterday."

"And you didn't think to say anything?" Isabella interjected.

"What could I have said?" Anders lurched forward again and whimpered. I smoothed his sweat-slicked hair down, "Hang on Sweetheart, we're almost finished. We'll be home soon, I promise."

"Come on, Blondie. You're strong enough to overcome this."

"We need to camp here. The darkspawn have forgotten us for the moment," Carver said, his brow folded in apprehension.

"Hawke, help me get him onto a bedroll," Varric instructed. I realized that I was uselessly clutching at my boyfriend, barely aware of what I was saying or doing. I needed to get my crises hat on; I was usually so collected under pressure, but here I was a fumbling mess when I was needed more than ever. Varric unfurled his bedroll, and I slid my arm around Anders waist. Together, Isabella and I coaxed him over to the mattress where he curled up on his side, hugging his knees to his chest.

Isabella turned to me, a crease of worry had knit its way between her brows, "It's this place isn't it? It's driving him mad. Was it this bad last time, Hawke?"

I nodded but I wasn't sure, "But he was better by now. I-I don't understand, Isabella. He was better. He was fine."

"I know, precious. We'll just let him sleep it off. He'll be fine in the morning and then we'll be out of here in no time." She smiled, but it was a thin veneer over her concern. I realized that she was recycling the words that I had used to try to comfort Anders. They did nothing to pacify the ache inside me, but I tried to return her smile all the same.

That night, though daylight probably still brightened the real world miles above us, I held Anders as he slept. Sharp whines and pained cries interposed his quiet, but he twitched and turned the entire time. I couldn't care less what the real world was like at the moment. Here, we were in darkness; here, we were isolated. We weren't a part of any of it.

It occurred to me then that Anders was not whole. This was not something that had happened recently, this was not Justice's fault. This place had only taken what was buried and dredged it to the surface. Anders never had a say in his life, every pivotal point was decided for him at birth when the Maker gave him magic and when the world abandoned him to it. He had never had a choice.

I watched his sleep. His body was still coiled, never restful.

His expression was furrowed, all the little lines around his mouth and forehead, where years of grim determination had left their mark, and then there were the creases around his eyes, from a lifetime of pretending that none of it mattered.

I made the decision then to fight for him. I had been all but blind to Anders' struggle before, impartial to his plight until now. Now I would be better for him. I would try harder when… _if_ we made it back.

With his head resting in my lap, Anders woke with a start, kicking out reflexively with his arms and legs.

"Shh," I soothed, "Are you okay?"

I waited a moment, until he remembered where he was and what had happened. Eventually, he swallowed noisily, and nodded, eyes on his hands. I kissed him on the forehead, "Good."

"No, it's not good, Garrett." He shuddered, "I can't- I can't do this anymore. Please, love. I can't distinguish. I just don't know what's real anymore, what if it's all just more of my paranoid delusions? I can't- I mean," he looked at me earnestly, and I could do nothing but look back, trying to process his words.

He held his careful fingers out toward me, just short of touching my cheek, as though he thought that if he did, I might disappear.

"Are you even real?" he said. Pain twisted in my chest, but it found no purchase in my expression. "You were always the thing that felt the most concrete to me, but how long have I been like this?" His hand dropped back to his lap and his eyes followed it accusingly.

"I used to be so sure," he was running his fingers absently through his dirty hair, still breathing fast from his nightmare, "…and now I just don't know."

Anders' words scared me more than his actions ever would, so laden with honesty and hopelessness. I pulled him to me and buried my face in his hair.

"Why did you make me come here, Garrett? You knew that I didn't want to." Anger coloured his words and the depths of his eyes, submerged in a well of despair.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, but this platitude of absolution simply wasn't enough. "You were so important last time. If you hadn't been there, then Carver…" I tried again, my excuses sounded so selfish, "I need you, Anders. But I never would have… If I had _known_ that this would happen, I would have listened. I'm so sorry."

"I need you too," he muttered against my shoulder.

I stroked his hair, and all I could manage was a distracted, "You'll be fine," while my brain raced to process all the implications of what he had told me. "We are almost home."

"No, we're not, Love." He was giving up. The very idea of surrender stood in such blatant opposition to his being. Anders was resolute, determined and passionate. He did not quit on himself. This was the point of _Anders_. I would not let him lose himself that easily. I started collecting our things.

"Then we better get moving," I replied.


	21. Chapter 21: Anders

**Chapter 21: Anders**

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><p>I feel frayed.<p>

There is one consciousness, my First. He is my friend. I want to give him what he wants, but he asks too much. I don't know if this is the same person that I used to trust and respect, or if he has become something else. I want insurance; to know what I am doing before it is too late to back out …it's already too late.

The Second, he confuses me. I see his memories through his eyes. He was a man once, a mage. I don't understand what happened to him but I know that he is trapped now and he is in pain. I wonder if he is obscuring his mind from me, showing me only those things that he knows I will sympathise with. I know he was responsible for much death and heartache, but I cannot bring myself to dismiss him.

They both want freedom, but the First is an altruistic urge, the Second is selfish. I feel torn, there are three consciousness's here in this space that was only ever meant for one, and two of them hate one another. The Third thinks he hates them all.

The Third is weak, he has been quashed to a far corner, an observer. He pushes on, with only half of himself in the real world even though, physically, he never left. He tries to notice his friends. He tries to smile when they look at him with worried eyes. He nods soberly in conversations unheard. He puts one foot in front of the other, over and over as he is led. He fights bodily, but he can do nothing in his own mind but listen and think.

All his life, his problems have been simple to escape, if not solve altogether. He could always run, and he always had. But he can't run from his own body, here he is trapped. He tries to ignore the arguments and the persuasive guilt, but their voices are so much louder than his.

He sees both sides, the want for personal freedom and the desire to give this gift to others. Why not help the Second then?

But there is something there, something vague. It is indiscernible yet clear. If the Second were obviously hostile, malevolent even, then this would be so much easier. It is hard to walk into an obvious trap. There is just that unshakeable feeling that something is _off _about him, something insincere in what he shares and what he chooses not to.

Which part of this patchwork being am I? I can't be sure. Sometimes I hear myself in every thought, but I am probably the Third. He is so weak.

I'm not sure of anything anymore. I am tired of making mistakes. I don't need more regrets; more scars to wear for the rest of my life. It seems sometimes that that is all I am.

I feel a tug on my consciousness and the Second grows louder, painful even. I open my eyes; _really_ open them to the world. We have stopped. I see a darkspawn before us. His stance is not hostile. No, I remember, that is Larius. His mind feels different against mine. It is not a part of the hive mind of the darkspawn, but he hears their Calling all the same, just as I do.

I focus. The world knits itself into more concrete sensations. I can feel the weight of my dirty clothing hanging off of my body, the cool polished wood of my staff in my hand. The sounds are crisper, clearer; but always there is that noise in the back of my mind, both voices pulling me in. I push back.

…"Are you talking about Corypheus?" Garrett's voice is pure, clean. I feel a pang of longing for him and for the simplicity of _us_. I wouldn't ever need anyone else. The problem is that once you let someone into yourself as I have, they are there for good. They say that two is company, but three is a crowd. I have no choice in the matter and I cannot run from this. I am afraid that there is no space here for Garrett any longer.

"He calls. Like an Old God. He mimics their cry." Larius is talking about Corypheus. Like an old God? Then this… this _is _my Calling. I don't know which option is worse: knowing that my time has come, or thinking that maybe he has singled me out for a purpose. Perhaps the answer is both. I don't know what I should feel, maybe relief? I am free, truly. Death is no longer an obstacle, more a destination.

"Can… can the rest of you hear him? I figured it was just me." My voice was dry and hoarse when I spoke. I couldn't remember the last time that I had. I realised that my question was foolish as soon as I had asked it. They are not Grey Wardens, except Carver, who had only been in the order for a few years. If he were sensitive enough to the taint to be able to hear the Calling, then I would be long dead by now.

Garrett wasn't looking at me, but I saw his throat bob and his jaw clench. He didn't want to acknowledge my passengers. I couldn't blame him.

"He calls them to free him," Larius rasped, "The dark children and the light, any with taint in their blood."

"If Corypheus isn't an old god, what is he?" Garrett asked, "Human, demon, darkspawn?"

"More than darkspawn. More than human." Justice was right, "He thinks. He talks. He pierces the Veil."

"You're talking about an awakened darkspawn. The Wardens have only encountered them once," Carver exclaimed. The Wardens keep just as many secrets from their own as they do from the world; Carver doesn't know that the Commander is still in contact with the Architect, though they are yet to come to an agreement. Only those who were there from the start would understand. There are many awakened darkspawn, and more than enough darkness for them to hide in.

"That's the Wardens" I say, surprising myself, "– always so sure of everything."

"He wants what was once his," Larius says. Freedom… but then what?

"How could this Corypheus be sending people after me if he's asleep?" Garrett asks…

I don't think _asleep_ is the right word for Corypheus' current state. He has a will. He is awake in my head, maybe more than I am. If he is this compelling in sleep then I dare not face him awakened. I can see it now that I am in charge again. I can see what needs to be done, but… when I hear their voices in my head, when I stop hearing my own will anymore, then do I really have a choice? Thank the Maker for Justice. If he were not there to hold back Corypheus, then I don't know what would have become of me already.

…"When you run off, where do you go?" Garrett demanded.

"I know the darkness before the seals." A contorted grimace swept over Larius' already marred features. It spoke of fear. "Here, the voice is too strong. I cannot stay!"…

The second consciousness did not quiet its thoughts. How many people was he influencing right now? Were there others on their way to his prison? It hurt to know that I was the weak link in our team. If there were one who would seal our fates, then it would be me. I couldn't let that happen.

Garrett's broad shoulders shrugged in front of me and I watched as Larius disappeared and we resumed the motions of travel. We walked, across a bridge, down another flight of stairs. The stone walls were gone and the ground was wet and empty. We rushed past scattered battlements belonging to old fortresses. I fought darkspawn with mechanical precision. Or maybe Justice fought them more than I did.

More pillars, more torches; dwarven runes and griffon statues. It was all fading again. The voices were louder now and I was sinking back into them. It is too much for me to resurface for so long. They are so much stronger than I am.

The Second demands attention. _What does Larius know? He is not as old as I am! He was not there in the beginning! Do I not deserve my freedom, like all the others? Am I so different?_ He shows me his childhood, his family, his free life.

_Larius is a Grey Warden Commander. His goal is to destroy the darkspawn. This is a worthy cause. If the Grey Wardens believe this creature must be destroyed, then we should not question it. Darkspawn are not meant for this world, he will corrupt. That is all that they are capable of._ He shows me Amaranthine, all the death that we fought against, those that were lost.

But besides the broodmothers, no Darkspawn were ever people. They are birthed with blackest hearts and direst malice with only one guide: a compelling drive to search, dig, find and corrupt. This is their conscience. They come to being in this way, and they do not change their natures. The awakened darkspawn seek freedom from their disposition, but they too, were never men. They have only ever known darkness. The second consciousness is not a ghoul. He was never a Grey Warden. He was a man, he _still is_ human.

_Give me this chance to be free, to be real again._

_A man must have a dark heart indeed to become a darkspawn without contracting their disease._

This is too confusing. I am only one person. How can I have so many diverging opinions fighting for dominance in my mind?

It hurts.

Through a film of distance, I see Varric open his mouth, gesturing to me. The way he sweeps his hands across before him, I think he must be telling a story. I train my eyes on him as we walk, I smile, I nod, but I am still absent. I can't claw my way out to listen to him. It's too loud in here. I feel like I am being bricked in with sound and thoughts.

I see through another pair of eyes, and the images are tainted with a perception that is not my own. There is feeling and thought here. It is righteous and sure.

I see through a second pair of eyes. I see suffering and I see mistakes, mistakes that have caused a lot of hurt. I think I see regret.

Are those my eyes?


	22. Chapter 22: Hawke

**Chapter 22: Hawke**

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><p>We could all see that Anders was deteriorating, though I wasn't sure if he knew it. I wasn't sure if he was thinking about anything except matching step after arduous step with mine. He worked at it consciously, totally absorbed with this simple task. We were a shuffling, laborious procession, like the kind you would see at a funeral.<p>

I dragged us forward, past battlements made of walls armoured with wooden stakes. The place was old, older than the fortress, maybe as old as the cavern itself. It had a withered look of stately disrepair. I passed altars, stone walls and bridges, corpses and papers that fluttered, trapped under sand and other miscellaneous objects. It made me wonder how the pages survived here. Perhaps it was just this place, sealed off and timeless, without a witness to its gradual downfall.

I knew where I was going: forward. I could see another tower jutting up out of the dirt and I wanted to get there as soon as I could. Giant candles lit my way, and from what I had heard of Corypheus, he would tell his disciples to make it easy for me to find his prison.

I was grateful though, to finally be walking on earth. I found the muffled, packing sound that my boots made on that surface to hold a certain dreary, pervasive reverence for me, it was so much better than the click of metal on stone. Still, the dirt here was not right, the same as many of the fortress's worldly parodies. It smelt wrong. You didn't need to be a Grey Warden to sense the taint in it all. I could see corruption creeping belligerently over every surface, leaving that greasy, sooty residue in its wake. I could smell it, and I was sure that if I were stupid enough to touch it, I would know the texture.

Everything around us was wet and mossy. I imagined that most of the rain that ever fell in the Vinmark Mountains eventually found its way into this natural chasm, where it would have nothing to do but collect and stagnate, sheltered from the voracious orange sun. The moisture seemed to promote the corruption.

I had had the rare foresight to fill my waterskin at the last enchanted source, which I was grateful for now. I did not want to be driven to drink any liquids that I found pooled in these surroundings. I had however, exhausted all of my food supply. My stomach groaned its irritation. I know, I know, Anders was right, I should have been more careful.

Now I was reaching the point of hunger where I would be semi-prepared to slaughter my own animal… just, none of the fauna living here, not yet anyway. Anders still had food, but I would not take it from him, he needed it more than I did. It worried me how much he had and how little he'd eaten.

I had my arm under his shoulders, conveniently and worrisomely thin, urging him forward. I wanted to carry him but I wasn't sure he would hear or let me. His control was slipping and I could see how hard he was trying. He still fought, but it took so much out of him. His expression was haunted, ashen and lost.

It was this place, and the sooner we got out of it the sooner he would be Anders again. He had to be Anders again. We could be happy together again and forget about this whole business with the Wardens and the Calling and Corypheus and Justice. We can forget it, pretend it never happened.

I mean, _I_ won't ever be able to forget this; but I know Anders, he will try to lock this memory away in the untouchable vault of his past, never to mention it subjectively again. Of course he will dwell on it, but he will take it out of context and rationalize it to a personal failing, not a singular experience. That's if he even has any memories of our travels, his subconscious might bottle it up like it has learnt to do from so many other trials.

I don't know what is happening. All I know is that Corypheus is influencing Anders, and that Justice is reasserting himself. I want to know why this is happening.

Larius said that Corypheus speaks through the Calling. If he is telling the truth then the Grey Warden in Anders is reacting to the voice of a demon. But why does Anders listen? He is smart, and courageous and determined. He has been tested by demons before and he has always come out untouched. Is it Justice then? Or is it Anders?

Anders has so many layers, so much depth, so many hidden places where he has tucked away dark memories, secrets and truths that he cannot acknowledge or comprehend.

Is this really his Calling?

How can I even begin to let him go? I've already resolved myself not to give up on him, not until I inevitably must, not until his dying breath or mine.

But I wonder now if he would be proud of the life that he has led and the legacy that he would leave behind. I am starting to realise that he would be disappointed in himself, and in me for letting him become complacent.

I was so full of anger at myself, and then there was that intense, enveloping sadness that crawled in my gut every time I thought of losing him, every time I thought of his unhappiness -which was becoming more and more frequent. How could I have been so blind to his past and present, what he wanted and what he needed? Or did I only see what I wanted to? Why had I never listened? How could this have been a surprise?

I never understood. I always thought: the man that I love is free, he has this life with me, he is happy. We didn't need the world or the rest of the people in it; we didn't need their laws and governance. It could be just us, and we could forget them all.

But Anders is not that simple. Everything he is, and everything that has been done to him, can be traced in a trail of blood straight back to the Circle. Fighting for mage rights is not a choice for him. He cannot sit back and be happy and free because he is haunted by the thousands of children who are born into this world who will never have a choice in their lives. He has lived and fought to earn his freedom and he sees it as a journey that no one else should have to consider as their only option.

He was born into this life, and yet I had tried to change him, thinking that none of it mattered at all because he was free and we were happy.

Anders doesn't see the world like the rest of us. He has perspective, maybe the kind that only a fade spirit can give to a person, the kind that is based on an idea. These things don't truly live but they can't die either. He understands that Thedas will not change in his lifetime, but he fights anyway because he knows that this fight is bigger than just him.

Gradually, I am realising that he was right all along.

I can't help but see in my mind a vivid montage of lives lost. I picture Anders in his death throes and there is no difference from how he is next to me now. It hurts me to know that he is unfulfilled, and that I have done this to him. He never accomplished his cause.

What have I done with my life?

I am the Champion of Kirkwall, but what does that mean?

It seems I am more of a nanny for Kirkwall's citizens than someone they would call their Champion. I am someone who can be called upon to find solutions for trivialities: solve minor disputes, clean up general mess and take out the trash. All the jobs that need to be done but that people cringe away from; even if they created the mess to start with. I am always diplomatic and impartial for them.

Their problems were nothing down here, paled in harsh comparison to our private struggles. I found myself missing the impersonal nature of Kirkwall's tribulations that I could solve so easily because they weren't a part of me.

But I never touched the real issues that had been eating away at the city. It is easy to see that Kirkwall is embedded at the centre of an age old dispute. Chantry versus mage, malifecar versus people who deserve to live freely, safety versus rights.

It is built on archaic traditions that some have finally realised are unfounded. It leaves a bitter taste in their mouths. They realise that they are reaching an era of new ideas, something that they cannot measure or grasp or convert. They have no means of understanding it; the narrow system that our world operates within simply has no way to comprehend the implications. We need upheaval.

And I wonder who wrote all those canticles of the Chant of Light, was it Havard? Cathaire? Or was it Andraste herself, speaking for the Maker? Was it a scholar, a participant, a disciple? A preacher? A writer? Or just an observer with no part in history, Is there such a person? What did they think to accomplish? Was it rhetoric, to teach humanity a lesson? Did they know what their words would do to Kirkwall, and to mages all over Thedas?

Makes you wonder what they didn't put in, what they forgot to mention, whose side wasn't told. Or maybe that question is more plain; I don't think there are any innocent Mages in the Chant of Light. There is no one like Anders.

The mages' plight is more of a balancing act than a conquest, but Kirkwall has tipped the scales overwhelmingly in the Chantry's favour. It is no longer about protection as in safety; it is control as in ownership. The mages have no choice now but to take a stand. I always thought that Anders would be the one to make it, and yet I have stopped him from achieving anything for them.

It's all too much. I can't even call Kirkwall my home; it is bitterness, suspicion and intrigue, an insistent kind of sadness. How can I put so much into a city when the man that I love has been burying himself alive in front of me? It is only now that I have opened my eyes to it.

I am tired of it. Too long have I sat, turning the wheels of Kirkwall's webs of power, pushing everyone forward, doing exactly as I am asked. Too long, I have been fuelling the selfish, morally-blank pursuits of its citizens, but the city is rudderless by design. It is time that I took control.

This is a road Anders and I will walk down together, driven by circumstance. I am resolving myself to this task. I will try to make the world better for us, for him. But first, we have to escape this place. I will kill Corypheus, and then I will stand over his body and revel in his end.

I dragged Anders' lumbering body forward, feeling the stickiness of sweat over his body. His skin radiated an unnatural warmth. His eyes were glazed and washed out. He made spent and gasping noises.

Worse thought, was his muttering. This close, I could hear every word that brushed past my ear in hot whispers. I just kept talking to him, hoping that he would listen to my voice and not the others. He would know that I was still there, dragging him through this.

"It's not that much farther now, Anders. We'll get you out of here. We'll go home and it will all be just as it was. Not that much longer now. I'll fix it. I'll get rid of the voices. Please just stay with me, Anders. Please just hold on."

But I couldn't hear what I was saying. I just needed to reassure him that I was there. All that reached me were his whispers and his struggle, the sound was above anything that I could say to him. I wondered if it was like that in his head too.

The others made cooing and comforting noises on the periphery of my senses, but their words were more like static, white noise. They directed their words at me as well as Anders. But if I couldn't hear my own offerings of promises and platitudes, I darn well couldn't hear theirs.

"Stop! Just make him stop talking! Make him stop!" It was a bitter, snarling plea. I wasn't sure if it was meant to be directed at me, more just at anyone who could help him.

"I'm trying," I told him, "please just hold on."

And then he fell forward, completely bereft of his reflexes. A spasm wracked his body like electricity was coursing through it. He didn't even put his arms out to stop his fall. I stumbled with him and his body sagged into mine.

He grunted with pain and it turned into a desperate cry as he held his head between his hands and rocked forward. It's as though that brain of his were the only thing in the world and all he could do was to seize it to stop it from physically hurting him.

"No, no, no, no, Anders get up. Get up Anders!" I wrenched his arms, trying to drag him to his feet but he held fast to his head, gripping at handfuls of hair. I could see the scalp pulling white. His body curled forward even more. I pulled him up to his feet and I almost had him standing but he collapsed again.

Anders looking so pained, like he was waging war on his body. He looked like he was fighting a natural law, like a stone struggling to walk, or a tree forcing itself to speak.

"Easy. Hold it together. Deep breaths," came Isabella's sure voice from beside me.

Varric was behind Anders now and his eyes were fixed on me in silent communication. I didn't understand the message.

"Hang in there, Blondie! We're going to get you out of this." He said to Anders, lowering him back to the floor. I tried not to sob. Pulling him like I had been was probably not doing anything good at all. I was more likely to add a dislocation to his list of problems.

"W-what's wrong, Anders?" I heard my voice wavering with grief.

Somewhere in his semi-cataleptic storm of insanity, by some miracle my words reached him. I wished I had chosen better ones.

He struggled to respond, "I-I can't… the voices." He pressed his head against the rocks as though it were a terrible burden that was pulling him to the ground. "W-Wardens… The joining… I have too much taint in my blood. I can't shut him out." His words were stuttered with gasps and moans.

"Who? Who can't you shut out, Anders?" I pleaded.

"It's Corypheus." Carver answered, "He can hear Corypheus."

His breath was ragged and choked now as he pressed the heel of his hand deep into his eyes.

"Help me, Love," he moaned.

"Anders! No, please Anders! I'm trying! I-I don't know what to do! Please, tell me what to do. I just… I just don't know what to do…" I touched his arms and his head and his chest and his face and each time he would moan and I would pull my hands back from him like maybe I had hurt him. I didn't know what to do, so I just kept whispering to him, saying the same things over and over. It wasn't reassuring or comforting but it was all that I could do.

He pulled his head up then and opened pained eyes, they bored directly into mine. The look he gave me was one of despairing loss, a goodbye.

I became aware that someone was tugging with slender fingers at my arms and another pair of hands, larger and stronger, were on my shoulders. They pried me off of Anders where he lay, shuddering and panting and rocking forwards and backwards. His body was convulsing with each forward motion. I saw with a start that his skin was fracturing open with fault lines that glowed a vivid blue.

I tried to pull back to him. I needed to help him, to be there so he could have the strength to fight Justice back down. I scrambled along the ground, dirt pushed under my fingernails, as I tried desperately to claw my way to him, but Carver's grip on my shoulders was unrelenting. I realized that Isabella's fingers still circled my forearm and she was talking to me, comforting me.

Couldn't they see that Anders was right in front of us suffering? Couldn't they tell that he was the one that needed help?

I tore my eyes from Anders' jolting body and glared at Isabella, willing her to listen to me, "Help him!" I cried.

Through a film of tears I saw Varric backing away from Anders, whose motions were slowing and becoming more disjointed. Carver pulled me back another step. I thrashed in his grasp, "No! No! Help him! Help him! Please!" And pitilessly, he pulled me further away.

Isabella was still talking to me, firmly. Saying it was going to be okay, but couldn't she see that it _wouldn't_ be okay unless we did _something_ and they weren't letting me do _anything_ for him!

Anders cried out again and his voice was anguished and strained, "I… will _not_…"

An electric charge pushed through the atmosphere, and with it, Anders opened his eyes to reveal staring blue spheres without whites or pupils, just pits of swirling fade power. His whole body was emanating an intense glow. It pushed out from under his palms, through his mouth and nose and up under his skin. And then it burst forth and Anders was no longer crouched before me; this was Justice and his voice rung out with defiance as he pushed himself to his feet amidst a torrent of blue flames, **_"…be controlled!"_**

"There are better ways to fight him, Anders!" I cried, but it was too late.

He slammed that staff against the ground and a rift opened up beside him. He was tearing the Veil, summoning demons to his aid.

_No! _No, Anders would never let this happen, this was not just! Shades amassed around us.

I was released and I drew my sword as I hurtled toward them, tearing their demonic bodies asunder. He summoned more. None of us lifted our blades against Justice, he fought in Anders' body, and Anders was the one who would bleed. I just hacked my weapon at the demons, and prayed to the Maker that Anders would fight for control.

Justice threw his arms up and azure flames surged from his fingertips. They crackled and sparked with black shadows. His eyes glowed with righteous fury. I had seen him use this magic to devastate darkspawn only a day ago. I did not want to get caught in its wake.

Isabella threw a flask toward Justice that shattered at his feet, unleashing a miasmic cloud that sent him stumbling and flailing. I dove toward him and caught him in a headlock, but he was so strong. That familiar body, usually so pliant for me, was unyielding. He recovered from Isabella's poison and threw out a blast of energy that struck at me bodily and sent me flying off of him.

I landed in the dirt, my eardrums ringing. The blade of Anders' staff slashed after me, only seconds behind. I shoved myself back away from him and his staff caught to scratch along my chest plate. He screamed in fury and tore into the Veil again. Three more shades seized their opportunity and leapt from the rifts.

Justice turned to see Carver hurtling towards him, and launched a tide of blazing fire out to meet him. It rolled over his armor, but my brother screamed in agony. Justice spun around to throw another blast of this magic at Isabella. She dodged and was up behind him in an instant. She had her knives in hands but used her elbows and fists more, only making only shallow cuts and slices.

There were crossbow bolts in Anders' thighs and shoulders. He brought his staff up and thrust the blunt end into Isabella's stomach. She doubled over, winded. Justice pulled the staff back, ready with the blade to attack again when a bolt went thudding into his shoulder blade.

I lunged at him again, and the full force of my weight sent us both crashing into the ground. I took a hold of his staff, wrestling it from his hands. Electricity charged from the polished wood, and reflexively, I leapt back, a circuit of heated energy burning through my body.

Justice threw me off easily then and lifted his staff into the air, summoning more of that powerful blue and black fire. It circled around his wrists and forearms, building and building until he was awash with it. All the while he screamed in savage fury.

This was not Anders, and this was not Justice. This was Vengeance. When I threw myself forward again, it was with my sword thrust out to meet him.

Flesh and metal connected. I watched as his shoulders slumped forward, deflated. Then his body crumpled under my weight, knees forward and back arched to meet the ground at full force. He didn't try to break his fall. My body followed, pinning him where he lay.

Staring down from atop him with my sword through his middle, I waited for him to fight back. Blood bloomed out from my blade, soaking the front of his robes. The azure fire of his spell petered out into nothing.

His eyes were wide, his mouth open in an 'o' of surprise, and suddenly Anders was before me again. He blinked the blue from his eyes and then they were soft, warm spheres of shining amber, growing colder by the second. I felt transparent, colorless and invisible, like a ghost.

I slid my sword from his body. It clattered to the ground beside me as I pushed my hands against his wounds to stop the blood, but it kept coming. I wore his life like crimson gloves.

Lying on his back, a tear trailed down toward his ear and this was my Anders, gasping and heaving labored breaths.

"No!" I heard myself choke. What have I done?


	23. Chapter 23: Vengeance

**Chapter 23: Vengeance**

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><p>I felt as though my brain was immersed completely in Corypheus' voice. It was so strong that it was blocking out everything else. The road before me swayed and pitched and I knew it was because I was stumbling. So I fixed my eyes on the ground and placed each step as carefully as I could, but my balance was off and the pain in my head, that intolerable crushing voice, was just too much.<p>

Corypheus sounded so much like me, and Justice sounded so much like me. I wonder what that says about the state of my own sanity. How can I distinguish anymore? There isn't enough room inside my head for all three of us. I can't tell what is real, or where I end and they begin.

I feel detached. I am concentrating so hard on struggling to walk forward, but it feels like someone else is doing it for me. Is this how Justice feels all the time when he is trapped in my body?

There is a strong arm supporting me and it almost definitely belongs to Garrett but I can't hear him and I can't take my eyes off of my path or I will surely fall. So I grip his other arm as tight as I can. I don't know what I would do if he were to let go of me now. I think I would just fall.

I hate realizing how completely dependent I am upon him. Where does his love for me come from? How is it possible that there is anything left of me that is still worth being with. I just can't understand it. Sometimes I think that maybe I'm an obligation to him now. Maybe he can see how broken I am and he is too much of a good person to stop holding me together and just leave me to die alone.

Maybe it would be better for us to talk about all this guilt that we both hold onto. It's the worst feeling in the world. It is nauseating, and the way it festers, never getting any easier to bear, it's just always there. I wanted Garrett to be rid of his too; his sister, his mother, all the innocents that he reached too late, but I couldn't. I couldn't because I knew he would turn my argument against me, the double edged sword that it is.

He'd say that I am not to blame. For my friends at the Circle, each time I left them to the Templars wrath. For Justice, what would he have become had I not interfered? For the Wardens when I left them in blood. For Carver, for letting my fate intertwine with his. For Karl, who I should have gone to sooner or left alone completely. For Garrett, and all the trouble I have brought him. For all those people who I've lost. For all the mages that I don't do a damn thing for, that I should waste this freedom that I was given.

This nauseating, chaffing guilt was exactly what I deserved. I have made so many more mistakes than any man should be allowed in a lifetime, and worse are the atrocities that I have witnessed and done nothing about.

Jarringly, one of the presences that was cramped in my mind surged forward, and as though in response, the other's thoughts became louder and now it was a screaming, throbbing symphony that I could not push through any longer. They eclipsed the weakest one, Anders. My mind felt like it was being wrenched from me. I was nothing but carrion, and they were picking me clean.

Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

_You have your freedom Anders, where is mine? Release me. I want to see my world._

I felt a fluttering sensation over my body, like someone was pulling me physically as well as mentally. I felt like I was being ripped in so many pieces. I couldn't feel my body anymore, just sickness and vertigo and helplessness. I was caught in a storm and the waves were throwing me around mercilessly but there was debris everywhere. I was thrown against it all but I couldn't take a hold of anything. I was thrashing underwater now and I couldn't breathe.

The voices: the second, deceptive and corruptive, it was making promises to me and it wanted freedom, it was just like me and it only wanted what I had. And the first voice, it was angry and powerful, it knew that everyone deserved freedom, everyone except those who have wronged us, like the Second has done. It wanted to punish those who would take our freedom but it still wanted the other one to stay trapped.

That didn't seem fair. If everyone should be free, why does this one not deserve it? If I can give it freedom, why shouldn't I?

And then another voice broke through, this one sobbed with anguish, and it hurt me to listen to its pain, "What's wrong, Anders?"

Garrett. That was Garrett. This was the voice that I needed to hear. This was the voice that cared about _me_, that wanted me to be whole and okay. Wanted _us_ to be okay. No one had ever cared for me as this man has.

I didn't want to open my mouth because I was afraid that all those other thoughts would pour from it unwillingly, but I had to say something. I needed to explain. "I-I can't… the voices," I managed. My words were little more than grunts and moans but I hoped he could hear them. "W-Wardens… The joining… I have too much taint in my blood. I can't shut him out." I gasped and fell forward and then my body was moving on its own again. I felt like a puppet, and there were two puppeteers fighting for my strings and I was being pulled back and forth again.

I need control.

Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. I _must_ endure.

I opened my eyes and Hawke's face swam up through everything and it was like an island, or an anchor or a buoy and I just couldn't let go of him now, not when I was so completely shattered.

Is this what dying feels like? Why do I feel so detached from it? Its as though I am a stranger in my own death.

"Help me, Love." I choked out the words and then his hands were ripped from mine as I was torn apart. I heard a guttural cry that might have been me but I was hopelessly alone now in my storm.

Then everything went black and I shattered anew.

…

The world collapsed inward on top of me. Everything that had been so vivid and surreal was reduced to sensory clutter. The darkness pitched and swayed as I was thrown into it, landing on cold stone floors. My wrists were bound in heavy manacles. The world around me was ringing brilliantly with the calling song. It swelled and pounded at me from all around and I was helpless to it. I couldn't move for the blinding intensity of the music, so I stayed where I had fallen, curled on the floor of this strange place.

This wasn't the Deep Roads. I could smell the difference. This place was stale sweat, centuries of blood spilled, and the powerful, overriding stench of fear. You could only make that connection when you had lived and breathed fear for as long as I had.

I reached out blindly around me and I felt walls on every side. Familiar walls that pulsed with memories of abject terror, walls with tiny etches made by my fingernails, trying futilely to keep track of the days, months, the years that I had spent in this windowless prison. There were so many, it would have only felt like a rough, lined pattern in the stone except that I remembered torturing my hands to create them; trying so hard to hold on to something concrete in all the nothing.

I closed my eyes, and searched for my willpower. I tried muttering incantations to cast but I couldn't touch my mana. It was there but drought had rent it completely empty. I didn't have magic. I didn't have anything.

Darkness spread out like bruises all around me, in the places where emptiness clings.

The manacles around my wrists had chaffed my skin raw, as though I had worn them for months at least. I could feel itchy blisters and scars. Scars that I still bore today.

_I'm not really here. This isn't really happening. This is a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream._ _If this is the Fade_, I rationalised, _then there will be doors, a window, something abstract to represent a transition. There has to be _something.

I felt around and cringed as my fingers moved over the scratches again. Reaching all over the walls blindly, I felt the bars and the locks. The song swelled up when my fingertips grazed them, sending me reeling back. I felt the brick walls. I felt the single metal bucket.

_There is nothing. I am a prisoner in my own mind._

_Or maybe I have just been caught again?... Could I have dreamed my life in Kirkwall and with the Wardens? Could it all have been just fever induced imaginings? How long had I been in confinement now? Could it have been longer than a year? My punishment for trying to escape the seventh time. I wonder if, knowing what I am to become, would I try to escape again? Is this prison really so much worse than the way I have managed to cage myself in life?_

_No_, I decided. _It will be worth it for the path I take, no matter the consequences. Simple joys, like pure, unfiltered light, trees and mountains, swimming and running, friendship and love. It is worth it for the people I will save along the way, for the people that will reach out in a futile effort to save me._

And then dread and despair welled up inside me, quashing my hope for the future.

_I have escaped seven times now. On the sixth, I was in solitary for a year and I escaped again. By the Circle's standards, I have learnt nothing. I will never be released again. Will they forget about me? Will I be trapped forever?_

The darkness was enveloping and it shifted and moved like the whispers and cries, except my eyes weren't adjusting. I couldn't see the pale of my hands even when I held them before my eyes. It was as though the blackness clung to me.

Here, the song receded to a whisper but it was so much worse. It reached out and cradled me, its notes a bitter caress. I cringed away from it but I couldn't escape. It was everywhere. There were the guttural animal cries of sufferers, tormented shrieks and pitiful whimpers that accompanied the sickening and enthralling symphony that pulsed around me. But they weren't human cries, this was not a place for people. There has never been another voice, another pair of eyes or hands. There is no hope behind these bars.

The noises pushed in on me, and they felt like all the demons that had ever come to me here. This was my lowest point, my rock bottom. They had whispered to me and held me and tried to make me promises. I hadn't given in. I could never have done that. I couldn't do that now. I wouldn't.

I rose, shakily onto my knees and threw myself at the bars and the bricks. I picked up the bucket and hurled it with as much force as I could at the bars, again and again. The song reverberated back at me like shockwaves. I screamed at them. I pulled and tugged and clawed, trying to get out, I needed to get out. My fingers bled and the manacles tore at my wrists. I don't know how much of those terrifying cries were my own but it made everything worse. I wished that they would stop, or rise to drown out the song that kept stroking my being with its revolting whisper.

The walls were hard and sharp and unrelenting, and why shouldn't they be? They had never given way in the past. There was no escape from these cells. I had learnt that well. So I did what I had always done. I made myself as small as possible in the middle of the cell, not touching any of the walls because then I wouldn't have to remind myself where I was. I thought of Hawke.

Would he rescue me? Would he know how?

My body was broken and shaking as I lay there, the stone didn't warm under me like it should have. I couldn't pretend I was anywhere else. There was only blackness and the song and this cage. This was my nightmare.

And then, I felt something. It was a subliminal, persistent kind of static. Like a living thing on the border of corporeal perception.

I saw a faint, blue, glow. When it appeared I wasn't sure that I could trust it. That it was even real or that it wasn't a fever dream. But it didn't fade away. I couldn't deny it, so I waited. As the glow strengthened the whispers seemed to slink away from it, retreating into the shadows. The light was outside of the cell and it was growing brighter and getting closer. Could this be another trick?

On padded feet, a cat slunk through the bars, squeezing its body small and pushing its ears back to fit. It was a familiar orange tabby, skinny and battered looking. This was my old friend Mr. Wiggums, my only constant companion from the Circle. He had come to rescue me... but he was different. The blue glow was resonating from his body, pouring from his eyes and his ears and mouth. And when he was through the bars the cell glowed and I could barely hear the song anymore.

All I could do was cry with joy. At least I had him, if nothing else. I reached out to him to give him a gentle scratch behind the ear.

**_Pull yourself together Anders! _**Came a booming voice from within my cat.

I scrambled away from him as much as I could, pressing my body against the wall of the cell. Mr Wiggums just spoke to me. This was something that I had always feared happening, because I knew that it would mean that I had slipped into insanity. But perhaps knowing that meant that I couldn't possibly be insane?

And then Mr. Wiggums transformed before my eyes. His entire form glowed phosphorescently until he was just a startlingly bright shape, and then he swelled and morphed into another familiar form. The glow subsided into whiteness and before me stood Justice. He towered over me, where I sat curled against the wall.

**_This is not over yet_****_. There is a way to stand against him._**

I buried my face in my hands. I couldn't look at him, but at least I found my voice, "No, please I can't. I never could," I told him.

In that moment, I wanted the darkness again, I wanting the song. It was all too hard.

**_You cannot give in._**

"But I-I already have. I'm alone. I'm not strong enough, don't you understand!"

**_You are not alone and your only weakness is in doubt.  
>You would fight for justice?<em>**

Justice, it was a strange idea. The word brought forth a vivid surge of emotion from deep within me; it was a feeling of unfulfilled purpose and a long suppressed yearning. It was more than a want, it was a _need_. But not by my hand, I couldn't. I had already tried and failed. I had given everything I had to the cause and it still wasn't enough. I shook my head no.

Justice almost sighed in a kind of defeat, **_Would you fight for him?_** He said.

I hesitated, and forced myself to look at my old friend. He meant Garrett. How many times had I told myself that I would do anything for him? And look where I am now, giving up. How could I do that when he had stood by me through so much? I couldn't.

I nodded. I would fight for Garrett.

"But how?"

**_Together we cannot be controlled._**

Together. That had been our plan from the start, but it hadn't worked. It couldn't work. Justice was too strong, there had been so little of me left. It had taken so much to pick up the shattered pieces of myself. How many times can one person splinter and rebuild themselves before they are irreparably broken?

"I've fought so hard to resist. Garret knows that… What will I become? What can I give him if I am nothing?" Garrett made me feel human. Would he still love me?

**_I do not have the answer to those questions. But you misunderstand, Hawke is essential. We cannot break ties with him._**

There was hope for me in those words, "How do you mean?" I asked.

**_Garrett Hawke has risen from nothing to a position of great influence in the city of Kirkwall, without aid or privellage. He does not succumb to desire, sloth or pride. He is a fool who is destined for greatness, and he shares our views. He will do as you ask._**

I felt a creeping kind of dread. Was I really considering this? "And what am I to ask of him?" I said.

**_He would help us to bring justice to mages all over Thedas, and we would give him immortality._**

Anger seared through me, "We would _use_ him," I spat. How dare Justice think that I would take advantage of the man I love.

**_We are the only ones who will sacrifice._**

"I need more than that to make this decision, Justice."

**_Your mind will succumb to my presence over time regardless of your decision now. Presently, our goal is under threat from Corypheus. You will not survive this journey without me._**

My heart gave a protracted clench, missing its beat. "I don't have a choice then."

**_You have a choice, yes. But you would be a fool to leave things unfinished. _**I already knew he was right.

**_Do you want to see justice brought to the world?_**

How could he ask me that after everything we'd been through? There was nothing I wanted more. "Of course I do. I just… didn't want to lose my humanity along the way."

**_Everybody needs to make sacrifices, Anders. This is our purpose._**

Yes, of course and what other choice do I have. I was always going to die for the Mages. If it is a choice between losing myself here to a demon, waiting for my Calling, or sacrificing myself for the cause that I love, then there is no question. I wouldn't even have Garrett if it weren't for Justice. I was never his to begin with. I nodded. Maybe the reason that it was so hard the first time was because I had so thoroughly resisted. If I made it easier for Justice and I to become one, would we have more control over ourself and our destiny?

**_You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced. Do you have the courage to accept my aid?_**

His words were an echo of easier times, but I hadn't had the courage then. I thought I did, but I had proved myself wrong.

I nodded. This time would be different. This was for Hawke. For Justice.

**_Then come with me. _**He put out his hand to help me to my feet.

I took it.

And then the blue glow strengthened into an intensity that filled the entire chamber, pushing back the song entirely. Everything was startlingly bright and I felt like I was full of that brightness too. Like I always had been, like it was a part of me that I had lost and I hadn't realized until now, a phantom limb. I let it in, I took everything and gave myself wholly. There was an empty place inside me just waiting to be filled with this. Justice. Vengeance. It fixed me up, all those old scars and wounds that still bled. I was whole.

And then the brightness dimmed and I was standing on the edge of Lake Calenhad, covered in mud and silt, my robes heavy with it, but here I was free. There was only the sound of static and my own breath. The light felt right, it came from all around, and from me. There was no sun here, just clouds that blanketed the whole of the sky and a light that spilled from everywhere. This was home. Across the great expanse of water before me I saw the Circle Tower of Ferelden and it burned brightly like a beacon of change. It was like a great jutting bone of the earth, a structure and an idea that was so archaic, but one that humanity clung to like a mold. I watched as it crumbled to dust and its pieces fell into Lake Calenhad and sunk to the bottom where they drowned and rusted and were forgotten forever.

In the surface of the lake, where the tower's reflection had once been, I could see my own image and I had changed too. I was fissured and cracked all over, but I had never felt more complete. Blue light poured from my skin, freeing and empowering light.

I was stronger now, but I understood that it still wasn't enough. There was more to it than just us. Together Justice and I would still not be able to bring justice to every mage in Thedas, but that doesn't matter anymore because our task has changed.

I am not the revolutionary that Justice thought that I could be, that we could be together. I am not a hero, I am not a liberator. I am not even a good person. We have both known this for a long time now. At best, I can say that I have never truly given up; no one can fault me for lack of conviction, but the fact remains; I was never good enough, never strong enough, for the cause. I could never bring about the revolution that we needed.

I can still fight though, I cannot relinquish that. This is not me giving up; I care too much about it all. The cause is all that I have left now; it is all that I am.

But the cause is too much a part of us for it to penetrate the world's ignorance. They will only see a rebel mage, an abomination, not a revolutionary. Their minds will scream 'malifecar!'

It isn't Justice's fault, I was like this before him. My old friend couldn't have known how fractured I was, he couldn't have known how hard this would be for us both. But we passed the point of no return when I said yes all those years ago in Amaranthine, and since then it was a struggle, and only now are we free because I found the courage to give myself over to justice.

Despite my best efforts, all I am is a pariah, even among my fellow mages. I cannot be the hero that Thedas needs.

But Hawke can. He is the key to all of this.

He is already a hero and so much more. How many times have I watched him succeed against all odds? Even with the world set against him and his beliefs, even with so much hardship to endure, even with me dragging him backwards with every step, he still comes out stronger and more determined than before.

He is charming, clever, persuasive, selfless, honest, noble, and he _always _fights for what is right.

Hawke has the power to incite change.

He is the hero, the _Champion_, that the mages of Thedas have been waiting for.

All I can be for them is a martyr,  
>but Hawke can bring them justice.<p>

There was a door standing alone on the silt slick edge of the lake and I turned to it now and turned the handle.

I was ready.

When I stepped out, I was back in the Deep Roads and my body was in motion, covered in cuts and slices: shallow and careful. They had been trying not to hurt me. The spent corpses of shades lay dispatched around where I stood. There were crossbow bolts lodged in my shoulders and thighs.

But Corypheus' song was gone.

My body still fought until Hawke's blade thrust through my abdomen. It hurt, this was the curse of a mortal body, but I knew he could do much worse, I have seen it. I collapsed on the ground, hand clutching at my stomach, holding in as much blood as I could. Garrett's hands were there too, holding me together. I smelt blood in the air, I tasted it on my lips, in my throat. It dripped down my chin.

This was my blood, my sacrifice. But not today.

Hawke was strong enough. He would always do what was right to protect those that he loves.

When a force that is supposed to be benevolent becomes destructive, no matter how much it means to him, Hawke will be there to cut it down. Only he can see right and wrong, black and white; unbiased and through the people's eyes. Only he can be the one to follow through and purge the world from its sin, from its injustice. I could never be that person, I have a different role to play.

There was a moral and ethical line that he would never cross, one that he patrolled and protected, but now I have drawn myself on the outside. This is the only way.

My body was being bled slowly by the deep puncture through my stomach. I drew on my mana pool, letting healing light flow from my palm to my abdomen. I spluttered, and flecks of blood landed on the dirt before me next to the creeping pool from my stomach. Not very much, but it stung.

Hawke was on his knees beside me, his arm around my shoulders, pressing a health poultice to my lips, still so trusting. The rest of them stood back, scared maybe? Of me and what I might be capable of, what I could have done to them, what I was yet to do. What they couldn't possibly realise is that I had so much more control now.

I shook my head and he settled for wiping the blood from my mouth with his shaking fingers, smudging its stickiness around my chin. So this is what shock feels like? My body felt empty and dizzy, but I knew I was stronger than ever before. The healing spell washed through me, twisting and pulling the collagen fibres and elastin back together, fixing this body of ours.

"Anders," and from Garrett's lips the word was like a sad melody, "are you okay, Love?" He shook desperately.

I swallowed the blood and licked my lips clean.

"I've never been better."

* * *

><p><strong><em>all know where our heroes go from here :'(<br>_****_Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck with me throughout. I hope you felt as much while reading this as I did while writing.  
>I <em>****_would sincerely appreciate some feedback if you would take the time. What could I do better? Did you like the ending? I wanted it to be as tragic as our DA2 finale. It is, after all, a set-up of sorts._**

**_Thanks for everything,_**

**_Bram._**


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